


50 SHADES DARKER (A Ziall Fanfic)

by letMALIKyouHORAN



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-10
Updated: 2015-06-09
Packaged: 2018-04-03 17:39:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 35,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4109407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/letMALIKyouHORAN/pseuds/letMALIKyouHORAN
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daunted by the singular tastes and dark secrets of the beautiful, tormented young entrepreneur Zayn Malik, Niall Horan has broken off their relationship to start a new career with a London publishing house.</p>
<p>But desire for Zayn still dominates his every waking thought, and he proposes a new arrangement, Niall cannot resist. They rekindle their searing sensual affair, and Niall learns more about the harrowing past of his damaged, driven, and demanding Fifty Shades.</p>
<p>While Zayn wrestles with his inner demons, Niall must confront the anger and envy of the men and women who came before him, and make the most important decision of his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. CHAPTER 1

NIALL’S P.O.V

I have survived Day Three Post-Zayn, and my first day at work. It has been a welcome distraction. The time has flown by in a haze of new faces, work to do, and Mr. Jack Hyde.

Mr. Jack Hyde . . . he smiles down at me, his blue eyes twinkling, as he leans against my desk.

"Excellent work, Nialler. I think we're going to make a great team." Somehow, I manage to curl my lips upward in a semblance of a smile.

"I'll be off, if that's okay with you," I murmur.

"Of course, it's five thirty. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Goodnight, Jack."

"Goodnight, Nialler."

Collecting my bag, I shrug on my jacket and head for the door. Out in the early evening air of London, I take a deep breath. It doesn't begin to fill the void in my chest, a void that's been present since Saturday morning, a painful hollow reminder of my loss. I walk toward the bus stop with my head down, staring at my feet and contemplating being without my beloved Justin, my old Beetle . . . or the Audi.

I shut the door on that thought immediately. No. Don't think about him. Of course, I can afford a car—a nice, new car. I suspect he has been overgenerous in his payment, and the thought leaves a bitter taste in my mouth, but I dismiss it and try to keep my mind as numb and as blank as possible. I can't think about him. I don't want to start crying again— not out on the street.

The apartment is empty. I miss Louis, and I imagine him lying on a beach in Barbados sipping a cool cocktail. I turn on the flat-screen television so there's noise to fill the vacuum and provide some semblance of company, but I don't listen or watch. I sit and stare blankly at the brick wall. I am numb. I feel nothing but the pain. How long must I endure this?

The door buzzer startles me from my anguish, and my heart skips a beat. Who could that be? I press the intercom.

"Delivery for Mr. Horan." A bored, disembodied voice answers, and disappointment crashes through me. I listlessly make my way downstairs and find a young man noisily chewing gum, holding a large cardboard box, and leaning against the front door. I sign for the package and take it upstairs. The box is huge and surprisingly light. Inside are two dozen long-stemmed, white roses and a card.

Congratulations on your first day at work.  
I hope it went well.  
And thank you for the glider. That was very thoughtful.  
It has pride of place on my desk.

Zayn

I stare at the typed card, the hollow in my chest expanding. No doubt, his assistant sent this. Zayn probably had very little to do with it. It's too painful to think about. I examine the roses—they are beautiful, and I can't bring myself to throw them in the trash.

Dutifully, I make my way into the kitchen to hunt down a vase.

And so a pattern develops: wake, work, cry, sleep. Well, try to sleep. I can't even escape him in my dreams. Brown burning eyes, his lost look, his hair burnished and bright all haunt me. And the music . . . so much music—I cannot bear to hear any music. I am careful to avoid it at all costs. Even the jingles in commercials make me shudder.

I have spoken to no one, not even my mother or Bobby. I don't have the capacity for idle talk now. No, I want none of it. I have become my own island state. A ravaged, war-torn land where nothing grows and the horizons are bleak. Yes, that's me. I can interact impersonally at work, but that's it. If I talk to Mum, I know I will break even further—and I have nothing left to break.

I am finding it difficult to eat. By Wednesday lunchtime, I manage a cup of yogurt, and it's the first thing I've eaten since Friday. I am surviving on a newfound tolerance for lattes and Diet Coke. It's the caffeine that keeps me going, but it's making me anxious.  
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
Jack has started to hover over me, irritating me, asking me personal questions. What does he want? I'm polite, but I need to keep him at arm's length.

I sit and begin trawling through a pile of correspondence addressed to him, and I'm pleased with the distraction of menial work. My e-mail pings, and I quickly check to see who it's from.

Holy shit. An e-mail from Zayn. Oh no, not here . . . not at work.

From: Zayn Malik  
Subject: Tomorrow  
Date: June 8, 2011 14:05  
To: Niall Horan

Dear Niall  
Forgive this intrusion at work. I hope that it's going well. Did you get my flowers?  
I note that tomorrow is the gallery opening for your friend's show, and I'm sure you've not had time to purchase a car, and it's a long drive. I would be more than happy to take you—should you wish.  
Let me know.

Zayn Malik  
CEO, Malik Enterprises Holdings Inc.

Tears swim in my eyes. I hastily leave my desk and bolt to the restroom to escape into one of the stalls. Liam's show. Crap. I'd forgotten all about it, and I promised him I'd go. 

Shit, Zayn is right; how am I going to get there?

I clutch my forehead. Why hasn't Liam phoned? Come to think of it—why hasn't anyone phoned? I've been so absentminded, I haven't noticed that my cell phone has been silent.

Shit! I am such an idiot! I still have it on divert to the Blackberry. Holy hell. Zayn's been getting my calls—unless he's just thrown the Blackberry away. How did he get my e-mail address?

He knows my shoe size, an e-mail address is hardly going to present him with many problems.

Can I see him again? Could I bear it? Do I want to see him? I close my eyes and tilt my head back as grief and longing lance through me. Of course I do.

Perhaps, perhaps I can tell him I've changed my mind . . . No, no, no. I cannot be with someone who takes pleasure in inflicting pain on me, someone who can't love me.

Torturous memories flash through my mind—the gliding, holding hands, kissing, the bathtub, his gentleness, his humor, and his dark, brooding, sexy stare. I miss him. It's been five days, five days of agony that has felt like an eternity.

I wrap my arms around my body, hugging myself tightly, holding myself together. I miss him. I really miss him . . . I love him. Simple.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------

I cry myself to sleep at night, wishing I hadn't walked out, wishing that he could be different, wishing that we were together. How long will this hideous overwhelming feeling last? 

I am in purgatory.

Niall James Horan, you are at work! I must be strong, but I want to go to Liam’s show, and deep down, the masochist in me wants to see Zayn. Taking a deep breath, I head back to my desk.

From: Niall Horan  
Subject: Tomorrow  
Date: June 8, 2011 14:25  
To: Zayn Malik

Hi Zayn  
Thank you for the flowers; they are lovely.  
Yes, I would appreciate a lift.  
Thank you.

Niall Horan  
Assistant to Jack Hyde, Commissioning Editor, LIP

Checking my phone, I find that it is still switched to divert. Jack is in a meeting, so I quickly call Liam.

"Hi, Li. It's Nialler."

"Hello, stranger." His tone is so warm and welcoming it's almost enough to push me over the edge again.

"I can't talk long. What time should I be there tomorrow for your show?"

"You're still coming?" He sounds excited.

"Yes, of course." I smile my first genuine smile in five days as I picture his broad grin.

"Seven thirty."

"See you then. Goodbye, Liam."

"Bye, Ni."

From: Zayn Malik  
Subject: Tomorrow  
Date: June 8, 2011 14:27  
To: Niall Horan

Dear Niall  
What time shall I collect you?

Zayn Malik  
CEO, Malik Enterprises Holdings Inc.

From: Niall Horan  
Subject: Tomorrow  
Date: June 8, 2011 14:32  
To: Zayn Malik

Liam’s show starts at 7:30. What time would you suggest?

Niall Horan  
Assistant to Jack Hyde, Commissioning Editor, LIP

From: Zayn Malik  
Subject: Tomorrow  
Date: June 8, 2011 14:34  
To: Niall Horan

Dear Niall  
Doncaster is some distance away. I shall collect you at 5:45.  
I look forward to seeing you.

Zayn Malik  
CEO, Malik Enterprises Holdings Inc.

From: Niall Horan  
Subject: Tomorrow  
Date: June 8, 2011 14:38  
To: Zayn Malik

See you then.

Niall Horan  
Assistant to Jack Hyde, Commissioning Editor, LIP

Oh my. I'm going to see Zayn, and for the first time in five days, my spirits lift a fraction and I allow myself to wonder how he's been.

Has he missed me? Probably not like I've missed him. Has he found a new submissive from wherever they come from? The thought is so painful that I dismiss it immediately. I look at the pile of correspondence I need to sort for Jack and tackle it as I try to push Zayn out of my mind once more.

That night in bed, I toss and turn, trying to sleep. It is the first time in a while I haven't cried myself to sleep.

In my mind's eye, I visualize Zayn's face the last time I saw him as I left his apartment. His tortured expression haunts me. I remember he didn't want me to go, which was odd. 

Why would I stay when things had reached such an impasse? We were each skirting around our own issues—my fear of punishment, his fear of . . . what? Love?

Turning on my side, I hug my pillow, filled with an overwhelming sadness. He thinks he doesn't deserve to be loved. Why does he feel that way? Is it something to do with his upbringing? His birth mum, the crack whore? My thoughts plague me into the early hours until eventually I fall into a fitful, exhausted sleep.

The day drags and drags and Jack is unusually attentive. I suspect it's Lou's clothes, the button down shirt in particular, I left two buttons open in which I've stolen from his closet, but I don't dwell on the thought.

I resolve to go clothes shopping with my first paycheck. The shirt is looser on me than it was, but I pretend not to notice.

Finally, it's five thirty, and I collect my jacket and bag, trying to quell my nerves. I'm going to see him!

"Do you have a date tonight?" Jack asks as he strolls past my desk on his way out.

"Yes. No. Not really."

He cocks an eyebrow at me, his interest clearly piqued. "Boyfriend?" I flush. Everybody at work knows I’m gay. And I find it for some kind of odd reason that my boss is Bi.

"No, a friend. An ex-boyfriend."

"Maybe tomorrow you'd like to come for a drink after work. You've had a stellar first week, Nialler. We should celebrate." He smiles and some unknown emotion flits across his face, making me uneasy.

Putting his hands in his pockets, he saunters through the double doors. I frown at his retreating back. Drinks with the boss, is that a good idea?

I shake my head. I have an evening of Zayn Malik to get through first. How am I going to do this? I hurry into the restroom to make last-minute adjustments.

In the large mirror on the wall, I take a long, hard look at my face. I am my usual pale self, dark circles round my too-large eyes. I look gaunt, haunted.

Jeez, I just styled my hair in a messy quiff and pinch my cheeks, hoping to bring some color their way. I take a deep breath. This will have to do.

Nervously I walk through the foyer with a smile and a wave to Claire at reception. I think she and I could become friends. Jack is talking to Elizabeth as I head for the doors.

Smiling broadly, he hurries over to open them for me.

"After you, Nialler," he murmurs.

"Thank you." I smile, embarrassed.

Outside on the curb, Higgins is waiting. He opens the rear door of the car. I glance hesitantly at Jack who has followed me out. He's looking toward the Audi SUV in dismay.

I turn and climb into the back, and there he sits—Zayn Malik—wearing his gray suit, no tie, his white shirt open at the collar. His brown eyes are glowing.

My mouth dries. He looks glorious except he's scowling at me. Oh no!

"When did you last eat?" he snaps as Higgins closes the door behind me.

Crap. "Hello, Zayn. Yes, it's nice to see you, too."

"I don't want your smart mouth now. Answer me." His eyes blaze.

Holy shit. "Um . . . I had a yogurt at lunchtime. Oh—and a banana."

"When did you last have a proper meal?" he asks acidly.

Higgins slips into the driver's seat, starts the car, and pulls out into the traffic.

I glance up and Jack is waving at me, though how he can see me through the dark glass, I don't know. I wave back.

"Who's that?" Zayn snaps.

"My boss." I peek up at the beautiful man beside me, and his mouth is pressed into a hard line.

"Well? Your last meal?"

"Zayn, that really is none of your concern," I murmur, feeling extraordinarily brave.

"Whatever you do concerns me. Tell me."

No, it doesn't. I groan in frustration, rolling my eyes heavenward, and Zayn narrows his eyes. And for the first time in a long time, I want to laugh. I try hard to stifle the giggle that threatens to bubble up. Zayn's face softens as I struggle to keep a straight face, and I see a trace of a smile kiss his beautifully sculptured lips.

"Well?" he asks, his voice softer.

"Pasta alla vongole, last Friday," I whisper.

He closes his eyes as fury and possibly regret, sweeps across his face. "I see," he says, his voice expressionless. "You look like you've lost at least five pounds, possibly more since then. Please eat, Niall," he scolds.

I stare down at the knotted fingers in my lap. Why does he always make me feel like an errant child?

He shifts and turns toward me. "How are you?" he asks, his voice still soft.

Well, I'm shit really . . . I swallow. "If I told you I was fine, I'd be lying." He inhales sharply. 

"Me, too," he murmurs and reaches over and clasps my hand. "I miss you," he adds.

Oh no. Skin against skin.

"Zayn, I—"

"Ni, please. We need to talk."

I'm going to cry. No. "Zayn, I . . . please . . . I've cried so much," I whisper, trying to keep my emotions in check

"Oh, baby, no." He tugs my hand, and before I know it I'm on his lap. He has his arms around me, and his nose is in my hair. "I've missed you so much, Niall," he breathes.

I want to struggle out of his hold, to maintain some distance, but his arms are wrapped around me. He's pressing me to his chest. I melt. Oh, this is where I want to be.

I rest my head against him, and he kisses my hair repeatedly. This is home. He smells of linen, fabric softener, body wash, and my favorite smell—Zayn. For a moment, I allow   
myself the illusion that all will be well, and it soothes my ravaged soul.

A few minutes later Higgins pulls to a stop at the curb, even though we're still in the city.

"Come"—Zayn shifts me off his lap—"we're here." What?

"Helipad—on the top of this building." Zayn glances toward the building by way of explanation.

Of course. Zero John. Higgins opens the door and I slide out. He gives me a warm, avuncular smile that makes me feel safe. I smile back.

"I should give you back your handkerchief."

"Keep it, Mr. Horan, with my best wishes."

I flush as Zayn comes around the car and takes my hand. He looks quizzically at Higgins who stares impassively back at him, revealing nothing.

"Nine?" Zayn says to him.

"Yes, sir."

Zayn nods as he turns and leads me through the double doors into the grandiose foyer. I revel in the feel of his large hand and his long, skilled fingers curled around mine.

I feel the familiar pull—I am drawn, Icarus to his sun. I have been burned already, and yet here I am again.

Reaching the elevators, he presses the call button. I peek up at him, and he's wearing his enigmatic half smile. As the doors open, he releases my hand and ushers me in.

The doors close and I risk a second peek. He glances down at me, brown eyes alive, and it's there in the air between us, that electricity. It's palpable. I can almost taste it, pulsing between us, drawing us together.

"Oh my," I gasp as I bask briefly in the intensity of this visceral, primal attraction.

"I feel it, too," he says, his eyes clouded and intense.

Desire pools dark and deadly in my groin. He clasps my hand and grazes my knuckles with his thumb, and all my muscles clench tightly, deliciously, deep inside me.

Holy cow. How can he still do this to me?

"Please don't bite your lip, Niall," he whispers.

I gaze up at him, releasing my lip. I want him. Here, now, in the elevator. How could I not?

"You know what it does to me," he murmurs.

Oh, I still affect him. My inner god stirs from his five-day sulk.

Abruptly the doors open, breaking the spell, and we're on the roof. It's windy, and despite my black jacket, I'm cold. Zayn puts his arm around me, pulling me into his side, and we hurry across to where Zero John stands in the center of the helipad with its rotor blades slowly spinning.

A tall, blond, square-jawed man in a dark suit leaps out and, ducking low, runs toward us. Shaking hands with Zayn, he shouts above the noise of the rotors.

"Ready to go, sir. He's all yours!"

"All checks done?"

"Yes, sir."

"You'll collect him around eight thirty?"

"Yes, sir."

"Higgins’ waiting for you out front."

"Thank you, Mr. Malik. Safe flight to Doncaster. Sir." He salutes me. Without releasing me, Zayn nods, ducks down, and leads me to the helicopter door.

Once inside he buckles me firmly into my harness, cinching the straps tight. He gives me a knowing look and his secret smile.

"This should keep you in your place," he murmurs. "I must say I do like this harness on you. Don't touch anything."

I flush a deep crimson, and he runs his index finger down my cheek before handing me the headphones. I'd like to touch you, too, but you won't let me. I scowl at him. Besides, he's pulled the straps so tight I can barely move.

He sits in his seat and buckles himself in, then starts running through all his preflight checks. He's just so competent. It's very alluring. He puts on his headphones and flips a switch and the rotors speed up, deafening me.

Turning, he gazes at me. "Ready, baby?" His voice echoes through the headphones.

"Yes."

He grins his boyish grin. Wow—I've not seen it for so long.

"Sea-Tac tower, this is Zero John—Tango Echo Hotel, cleared for takeoff to Doncaster via PDX. Please confirm, over."

The disembodied voice of the air traffic controller answers, issuing instructions.

"Roger, tower, Zero John set, over and out." Zayn flips two switches, grasps the stick, and the helicopter rises slowly and smoothly into the evening sky.

London and my stomach drop away from us, and there's so much to see.

"We've chased the dawn, Niall, now the dusk," his voice comes through on the headphones. I turn to gape at him in surprise.

What does this mean? How is it that he can say the most romantic things? He smiles, and I can't help but smile shyly back at him.

"As well as the evening sun, there's more to see this time," he says.

The last time we flew to London it was dark, but this evening the view is spectacular, literally out of this world. We're up among the tallest buildings, going higher and higher.

"Escala's over there." He points toward the building. "Boeing there, and you can just see the London Eye."

I crane my head. "I've never been."

"I'll take you."

What? "Zayn, we broke up."

 

"I know. I can still take you there and feed you." He glares at me.

I shake my head and flush before taking a less confrontational approach. "It's very beautiful up here, thank you."

"Impressive, isn't it?"

"Impressive that you can do this."

"Flattery from you, Mr. Horan? But I'm a man of many talents."

"I'm fully aware of that, Mr. Malik."

He turns and smirks at me, and for the first time in five days, I relax a little. Perhaps this won't be so bad.

"How's the new job?"

"Good, thank you. Interesting."

"What's your boss like?"

"Oh, he's okay." How can I tell Zayn that Jack makes me uncomfortable? Zayn turns and gazes at me.

"What's wrong?" he asks.

"Aside from the obvious, nothing."

"The obvious?"

"Oh, Zayn, you really are very obtuse sometimes."

"Obtuse? Me? I'm not sure I appreciate your tone, Blondie."

"Well, don't then."

His lips twitch into a smile. "I have missed your smart mouth." 

I gasp and I want to shout, I've missed you—all of you—not just your mouth! But I keep quiet and gaze out the glass fishbowl that is Zero John's windshield as we continue south. 

The dusk is to our right, the sun low on the horizon—large, blazing fiery orange—and I am Icarus again, flying far too close.

The dusk has followed us from London, and the sky is awash with opal, pinks, and aquamarines woven seamlessly together as only Mother Nature knows how. It's a clear, crisp   
evening, and the lights of Doncaster twinkle and wink, welcoming us as Zayn sets the helicopter down on the helipad. We are on top of the strange brown brick building in Doncaster we left less than three weeks ago.

Jeez, it's been hardly any time at all. Yet I feel like I've known Zayn for a lifetime.

He powers down Zero John, flipping various switches so the rotors stop, and eventually all I hear is my own breathing through the headphones. Hmm. Briefly it reminds me of the Thomas Tallis experience. I blanch. I so don't want to go there right now.

Zayn unbuckles his harness and leans across to undo mine.

"Good trip, Mr. Horan?" he asks, his voice mild, his brown eyes glowing.

"Yes, thank you, Mr. Malik," I reply politely.

"Well, let's go see the boy's photos." He holds his hand out to me and taking it, I climb out of Zero John.

A gray-haired man with a beard walks over to meet us, smiling broadly, and I recognize him as the old-timer from the last time we were here.  
"Joe." Zayn smiles and releases my hand to shake Joe's warmly.  
"Keep him safe for Stephan. He'll be along around eight or nine."  
"Will do, Mr. Malik, Sir," he says, nodding at me. "Your car's waiting downstairs, sir. Oh, and the elevator's out of order; you'll need to use the stairs."  
"Thank you, Joe."  
Zayn takes my hand, and we head to the emergency stairs.  
"Good thing for you this is only three floors," he mutters to me.  
No kidding.  
We sit in silence as our driver takes us to the gallery. My anxiety has returned full force, and I realize that our time in Zero John has been the eye of the storm. Zayn is quiet and brooding . . . apprehensive even; our lighter mood from earlier has dissipated. There's so much I want to say, but this journey is too short. Zayn stares pensively out the window.  
"Liam is just a friend," I murmur.  
Zayn turns and gazes at me, his eyes dark and guarded, giving nothing away. His mouth—oh, his mouth is distracting, and unbidden. I remember it on me—everywhere. My skin heats. He shifts in his seat and frowns.  
"Those beautiful eyes look too large in your face, Niall. Please tell me you'll eat."  
"Yes, Zayn, I'll eat," I answer automatically, a platitude.  
"I mean it."  
"Do you now?" I cannot keep the disdain out of my voice. Honestly, the audacity of this man—this man who has put me through hell over the last few days. No, that's wrong.  
I've put myself through hell. No. It's him. I shake my head, confused.  
"I don't want to fight with you, Niall. I want you back, and I want you healthy," he says softly.  
What? What does that mean?   
"But nothing's changed." You're still fifty shades.  
"Let's talk on the way back. We're here."  
The car pulls up in front of the gallery, and Zayn climbs out, leaving me speechless. He opens the car door for me, and I clamber out.  
"Why do you do that?" My voice is louder than I expected.  
"Do what?" Zayn is taken aback.  
"Say something like that and then just stop."  
"Niall, we're here. Where you want to be. Let's do this and then talk. I don't particularly want a scene in the street."  
I flush and glance around. He's right. It's too public. I press my lips together as he glares down at me.  
"Okay," I mutter sulkily. Taking my hand, he leads me into the building.  
We are in a converted warehouse—brick walls, dark wood floors, white ceilings, and white pipe work. It's airy and modern, and there are several people wandering across the gallery floor, sipping wine and admiring Liam’s work. For a moment, my troubles melt away as I grasp that Liam has realized his dream. Way to go, Li!  
"Good evening and welcome to Liam Payne’s show." A young woman dressed in black with very short brown hair, bright red lipstick, and large hooped earrings greets us.  
She glances briefly at me, then much longer than is strictly necessary at Zayn, then turns back to me, blinking as she blushes.  
My brow creases. He's mine—or was. I try hard not to scowl at her. As her eyes regain their focus, she blinks again.  
"Oh, it's you, Niall. We'll want your take on all this, too." Grinning, she hands me a brochure and directs me to a table laden with drinks and snacks.  
How does she know my name?  
"You know her?" Zayn frowns.  
I shake my head, equally puzzled.  
He shrugs, distracted. "What would you like to drink?"  
"I'll have a glass of white wine, thank you."  
His brow furrows, but he holds his tongue and heads for the open bar.  
"Ni!"  
Liam comes barreling through a throng of people.  
Holy cow! He's wearing a suit. He looks good and he's beaming at me. He enfolds me in his arms, hugging me hard. And it's all I can do not to burst into tears. My friend, my only friend while Louis is away. Tears pool in my eyes.  
"Ni, I'm so glad you made it," he whispers in my ear, then pauses and abruptly holds me at arm's length, staring at me.  
"What?"  
"Hey are you okay? You look, well, odd. God, have you lost weight?" I blink back my tears.   
"Li, I'm fine. I'm just so happy for you." Crap—not him, too.  
"Congratulations on the show." My voice wavers as I see his concern etched on his oh-so-familiar face, but I have to hold myself together.  
"How did you get here?" he asks.  
"Zayn brought me," I say, suddenly apprehensive.  
"Oh." Liam’s face falls and he releases me. "Where is he?" His expression darkens.  
"Over there, fetching drinks." I nod in Zayn's direction and see he's exchanging pleasantries with someone waiting in line. Zayn glances up when I look his way and our eyes lock. And in that brief moment, I'm paralyzed, staring at the impossibly handsome man who gazes at me with some unfathomable emotion. His gaze hot, burning into me, and we're lost for a moment staring at each other.  
Holy cow . . . This beautiful man wants me back, and deep down inside me sweet joy slowly unfurls like a morning glory in the early dawn.  
"Ni!" Liam distracts me, and I'm dragged back to the here and now. "I am so glad you came—listen, I should warn you—"  
Suddenly, Miss Very Short Hair and Red Lipstick cuts him off. "Liam, the journalist from the Donnie Printz is here to see you. Come on." She gives me a polite smile.  
"How cool is this? The fame." He grins, and I can't help but grin back—he's so happy.  
"Catch you later, Ni." He kisses my cheek, and I watch him stroll over to a young woman standing by a tall lanky photographer.  
Liam's photographs are everywhere, and in some cases, blown up onto huge canvases.  
There are both monochromes and colors. There's an ethereal beauty to many of the landscapes. In one taken out near the lake, it's early evening and pink clouds are reflected in the stillness of the water. Briefly, I'm transported by the tranquility and the peace. It's stunning.  
Zayn joins me, and I take a deep breath and swallow, trying to recover some of my earlier equilibrium. He hands me my glass of white wine.  
"Does it come up to scratch?" My voice sounds more normal.  
He looks quizzically at me.  
"The wine."  
"No. Rarely does at these kinds of events. The boy's quite talented, isn't he?" Zayn is admiring the lake photo.  
"Why else do you think I asked him to take your portrait?" I can't help the pride in my voice. His eyes glide impassively from the photograph to me.  
"Zayn Malik?" The photographer from the Doncaster Printz approaches Zayn.  
"Can I have a picture, sir?"  
"Sure." Zayn hides his scowl. I step back, but he grabs my hand and pulls me to his side. The photographer looks at both of us and can't hide his surprise.  
"Mr. Malik, thank you." He snaps a couple of photos. "Mr . . . ?" he asks.  
"Horan," I reply.  
"Thank you, Mr. Horan." He scurries off.  
"I looked for pictures of you with dates on the Internet. There aren't any. That's why Lou assumed you were gay."  
Zayn's mouth twitches with a smile.   
"That explains your question. No, I don't do dates, Niall—only with you. But you know that." His eyes burn with sincerity.  
"So you never took your"—I glance around nervously to check no one can overhear us—"subs out?"  
"Sometimes. Not on dates. Shopping, you know." He shrugs, his eyes not leaving mine.  
Oh, so just in the playroom—his Red Room of Pain and his apartment. I don't know what to feel about that.  
"Just you, Niall," he whispers.  
I blush and stare down at my fingers. In his own way, he does care about me.  
"Your friend here seems more of a landscape man, not portraits. Let's look round." He holds his hand out to me, and I take it.  
We wander past a few more prints, and I notice a couple nodding at me, smiling broadly as if they know me. It must be because I'm with Zayn, but one young man is blatantly staring. Odd.  
We turn the corner, and I can see why I've been getting strange looks. Hanging on the far wall are seven huge portraits—of me.  
I stare blankly at them, stupefied, the blood draining from my face. Me: pouting, laughing, scowling, serious, amused. All in super close up, all in black and white.  
Holy crap! I remember Liam messing with the camera on a couple of occasions when he was visiting and when I'd been out with him as driver and photographer's assistant. He took snapshots, or so I thought. Not these invasive candids.  
I glance up at Zayn, who is staring, transfixed, at each of the pictures in turn.  
"Seems I'm not the only one," he mutters cryptically, his mouth settling into a hard line. I think he's angry. Oh no.  
"Excuse me," he says, pinning me with his bright brown gaze for a moment. He turns and heads to the reception desk.  
What's his problem now? I watch mesmerized as he talks animatedly with Miss Very Short Hair and Red Lipstick. He fishes out his wallet and produces his credit card.  
Shit. He must have bought one of them.  
"Hey. You're the muse. These photographs are terrific." A young man with a shock of bright blond hair startles me. I feel a hand at my elbow and Zayn is back.  
"You're a lucky guy." Blond Shock smirks at Zayn, who gives him a cold stare.  
"That I am," he mutters darkly, as he pulls me over to one side.  
"Did you just buy one of these?"  
"One of these?" he snorts, not taking his eyes off them.  
"You bought more than one?"  
He rolls his eyes. "I bought them all, Niall. I don't want some stranger ogling you in the privacy of their home."  
My first inclination is to laugh. "You'd rather it was you?" I scoff.  
He glares down at me, caught off guard by my audacity, I think, but he's trying to hide his amusement.  
"Frankly, yes."  
"Pervert," I mouth at him and bite my lower lip to prevent my smile.  
His mouth drops open, and now his amusement is obvious. He strokes his chin thoughtfully.  
"Can't argue with that assessment, Niall." He shakes his head, and his eyes soften with humor.  
"I'd discuss it further with you, but I've signed an NDA." He sighs, gazing at me, and his eyes darken.   
"What I'd like to do to your smart mouth," he murmurs.  
I gasp, knowing full well what he means. "You're very rude." I try to sound shocked and succeed. Does he have no boundaries?  
He smirks at me, amused, and then he frowns.  
"You look very relaxed in these photographs, Niall. I don't see you like that very often."  
What? Whoa! Change of subject—talk about non sequitur—from playful to serious.  
I flush and glance down at my fingers. He tilts my head back, and I inhale sharply at the contact with his long fingers.  
"I want you that relaxed with me," he whispers. All trace of humor has gone.  
Deep inside me that joy stirs again. But how can this be? We have issues.  
"You have to stop intimidating me if you want that," I snap.  
"You have to learn to communicate and tell me how you feel," he snaps back, eyes blazing.  
I take a deep breath.   
"Zayn, you wanted me as a submissive. That's where the problem lies. It's in the definition of a submissive—you e-mailed it to me once." I pause, trying to recall the wording. "I think the synonyms were, and I quote, ‘compliant, pliant, amenable, passive, tractable, resigned, patient, docile, tame, subdued.' I wasn't supposed to look at you. Not talk to you unless you gave me permission to do so. What do you expect?" I hiss at him.  
He blinks, and his frown deepens as I continue.  
"It's very confusing being with you. You don't want me to defy you, but then you like my ‘smart mouth.' You want obedience, except when you don't, so you can punish me. I just don't know which way is up when I'm with you."  
He narrows his eyes. "Good point well made, as usual, Blondie." His voice is frigid. "Come, let's go eat."  
"We've only been here for half an hour."  
"You've seen the photos; you've spoken to the boy."  
"His name is Liam."  
"You've spoken to Liam—the man who, the last time I met him, was trying to push his tongue into your reluctant mouth while you were drunk and ill," he snarls.  
"He's never hit me," I spit at him.  
Zayn scowls at me, fury emanating from every pore. "That's a low blow, Niall," he whispers menacingly.  
I flush, and Zayn runs his hands through his hair, bristling with barely contained anger. I glare back at him.  
"I'm taking you for something to eat. You're fading away in front of me. Find the boy, say goodbye."  
"Please, can we stay longer?"  
"No. Go. Now. Say goodbye."  
I glare at him, my blood boiling. Mr. Damned Control Freak. Angry is good. Angry is better than tearful.  
I drag my gaze away from him and scan the room for Liam. He's talking to a group of young men and women. I stalk off toward him and away from Fifty. Just because he brought me here, I have to do as he says? Who the hell does he think he is?  
The girls and boys are hanging on Liam’s every word. One of them gasps as I approach, no doubt recognizing me from the portraits.  
"Li."  
"Ni. Excuse me, guys." Liam grins at them and puts his arm around me, and on some level I'm amused—Liam all smooth, impressing the ladies.  
"You look mad," he says.  
"I have to go," I mutter mulishly.  
"You just got here."  
"I know but Zayn needs to get back. The pictures are fantastic, Liam—you're very talented."  
He beams. "It was so cool seeing you."  
Liam sweeps me into a big bear hug, spinning me so I can see Zayn across the gallery. He's scowling, and I realize it's because I'm in Liam's arms. So in a very calculating move, I wrap my arms around Liam's neck. I think Zayn is going to expire. His glare darkens to something quite sinister, and slowly he makes his way toward us.  
"Thanks for the warning about the portraits of me," I mumble.  
"Shit. Sorry, Ni. I should have told you. D'you like them?"  
"Um . . . I don't know," I answer truthfully, momentarily knocked off balance by his question.  
"Well, they're all sold, so somebody likes them. How cool is that? You're a poster lad." He hugs me tighter still as Zayn reaches us, glowering at me now, though fortunately Liam doesn't see.  
Liam releases me. "Don't be a stranger, Ni. Oh, Mr. Malik, good evening."  
"Mr. Payne, very impressive." Zayn sounds icily polite. "I'm sorry we can't stay longer, but we need to head back to London, Niall?" He subtly stresses we and takes my hand as he does so.  
"Bye, Li. Congratulations again." I give him a quick kiss on the cheek, and before I know it Zayn is dragging me out of the building. I know he's boiling with silent wrath, but so am I.  
He looks quickly up and down the street then heads left and suddenly sweeps me into a side alley, abruptly pushing me up against a wall. He grabs my face between his hands, forcing me to look up into his ardent determined eyes.  
I gasp, and his mouth swoops down. He's kissing me, violently. Briefly our teeth clash, then his tongue is in my mouth.  
Desire explodes like the Fourth of July throughout my body, and I'm kissing him back, matching his fervor, my hands knotting in his hair, pulling it, hard. He groans, a low sexy sound in the back of his throat that reverberates through me, and his hand moves down my body to the top of my thigh, his fingers digging into my flesh through my pants.  
I pour all the angst and heartbreak of the last few days into our kiss, binding him to me, and it hits me—in this moment of blinding passion—he's doing the same, he feels the same.  
He breaks off the kiss, panting. His eyes are luminous with desire, firing the already heated blood that is pounding through my body. My mouth is slack as I try to drag precious air into my lungs.  
"You. Are. Mine," he snarls, emphasizing each word. He pushes away from me and bends, hands on his knees as if he's run a marathon. "For the love of God, Niall." I lean against the wall, panting, trying to control the riotous reaction in my body, trying to find my equilibrium again.  
"I'm sorry," I whisper once my breath has returned.  
"You should be. I know what you were doing. Do you want the photographer, Niall? He obviously has feelings for you."  
I flush and shake my head.  
"No. He's just a friend."  
"I have spent all my adult life trying to avoid any extreme emotion. Yet you . . . you bring out feelings in me that are completely alien. It's very . . ." He frowns, grasping for the word. "Unsettling.  
"I like control, Ni, and around you that just"—he stands, his gaze intense—"evaporates." He waves his hand vaguely, then runs it through his hair and takes a deep breath. He clasps my hand.  
"Come, we need to talk, and you need to eat."


	2. CHAPTER 2

ZAYN’S P.O.V

I take Niall to a small, and intimate French restaurant called Le Picotin. I have not particularly chosen it; it’s the only one available within the distance I’m willing to travel before I can allow him to go on without another bite. I would love to take him to a proper restaurant cooked by the best chefs in the city with a great wine selection, but I’m bereaved for time.  
“This place will have to do,” I say grumbling. “We don’t have much time.”   
The restaurant is deep blood red in color like my Playroom with wooden chairs, mismatched eclectic linen tablecloths and with mirrors randomly placed white candles and small vases of white roses. Ella Fitzgerald is aptly crooning. This Thing Called Love softly in the background adding to the romantic setting.  
The hostess leads us to a small table for two in a small alcove and Niall sits across from me apprehensive, and frankly I’m quite nervous because he hasn’t given me any indication so far showing me that he wants me back other than responding to my kiss in the alley. Then again, our bodies are so attuned to each other, it’s almost they speak a language uniquely their own.  
“We don’t have long,” I say to the waiter to speed him up.   
“We’ll each have sirloin steak cooked medium, béarnaise sauce if you have it, fries, and green vegetables, whatever the chef has; and bring me the wine list,” I say ordering for both of us.  
“Certainly sir,” says the waiter sort of taken aback; but I’m used to that sort of response because generally that’s the response when you have overwhelmingly taken control of a given situation, and I aim to do just that for the duration of the night. I place my Blackberry on the table. Niall is almost scowling silently. Then he speaks.  
“And if I don’t like steak?” he says making me sigh and inwardly I say ‘God, give me patience tonight!’  
“Don’t start, Niall.”  
“I’m not a child, Zayn,” he hisses in a low tone leaning in.  
“Well, stop acting like one,” I say mirroring his action. He automatically leans back in his seat with an incredulous look on his face, blinking at me. We’re both agitated, nervous, and this isn’t going like how I envisioned.  
“I’m a child because I don’t like steak?” he mutters in a hurt tone.  
How could you be so obtuse Niall? You drove me crazy! Nearly gave me a heart attack by wrapping yourself all over the photographer making me more jealous than I have ever been of anything or anyone in my entire life. You are mine!  
“For deliberately making me jealous. It’s a childish thing to do. Have you no regard for your friend’s feelings, leading him on like that?” I say pressing my lips into a thin line scowling and just then the waiter returns with a wine list. I’m still vibrating with jealousy and passion and anger all wrapped in one. Niall blushes. Suddenly what I say sinks in for which I’m grateful. I force my gaze away from him to look into the wine list.  
Well, he wants to have choices; I’ll let him choose the wine if he wants to. I’m sure I can live with his choice. “Would you like to choose the wine?” I ask raising an eyebrow at him expectantly. He glares back at me.  
“You choose,” he answers sullenly but chastened.  
“Two glasses of the Barossa Valley Shiraz, please,” I say to the waiter.  
“Err… we only sell that wine by the bottle, sir,” says the waiter. What, am I supposed to deal with him too?  
“A bottle then,” I snap.  
“Sir,” he says obediently and retreats. Niall listens to the exchange and frowns at me.  
“You’re very grumpy,” he observes. Really? You think?   
I gaze at him impassively, I am anything but. “I wonder why that is?”  
“Well, it’s good to set the right tone for an intimate and honest discussion about the future, wouldn’t you say?” he says smiling at me sweetly.  
I’m chastened by Niall, once again... I press my mouth into a hard line. Then I realize that I’m allowing my anger and other emotions take over control, something I wish not to hand over. Then reluctantly I feel my lips twitching into a smile. Despite the fact I want to wipe it off, I fail.  
“I’m sorry,” I apologize.  
“Apology accepted, and I’m pleased to inform you I haven’t decided to become a vegetarian since we last ate,” he says, and it may be true, but since he hasn’t eaten since we last ate, that remark means little.  
“Since that was the last time you ate, I think that’s a moot point.”  
“There is that word again, moot,” he says.  
“Moot,” I mouth the word as my eyes soften with humor. Exasperation sweeps over me again making me nervous. I run my hands through my hair, and my heart is constricting once more.   
“Ni, the last time we spoke, you left me. I’m a little nervous. I’ve told you I want you back, and you’ve said… noting,” I say with all the intensity of my emotions coming out of my pores.  
What does he expect? I’m incredibly nervous, and I don’t do nervous! I’ve brokered high stakes, millions of dollars’ worth of business deals, contracts, and agreements. I have not been as nervous then, because I was in my element. With Niall, everything is out the window. My emotions take over, my heart flips, and my brain takes a vacation when I most need it. I look at him intensely and expectantly. He’s taken aback.  
“I’ve missed you… really missed you, Zayn. The past few days have been…” he says pausing to find the appropriate word, and settles for “difficult.”   
He swallows, and silently looks at me with some unnamed emotion. “Nothing’s changed. I can’t be what you want me to be,” he says almost choking on his words.  
“You are what I want you to be,” I say fervently in a soft emphatic voice.  
“No, Zayn, I’m not,” he retorts.  
“You’re upset because of what happened last time. I behaved stupidly, and you… So did you. Why didn’t you safe word, Niall?” I ask in an accusatory tone. I’ve thought about this a lot. I have always reminded him to safeword if it gets overwhelming in the playroom, and he hasn’t. He looks at me and finally hasn’t got something to say.  
“Answer me,” I plead.  
“I don’t know,” is his first answer. “I was overwhelmed. I was trying to be what you wanted me to be, trying to deal with the pain, and it went out of my mind. You know… I forgot,” he whispers looking ashamed, shrugging apologetically.  
What? I went through hell last week, because he simply forgot to use the safeword? Oh God! I’m crushed! Mortified!  
“You forgot!” I gasp in horror, so upset I grab the sides of the table glaring at him. He sinks in his chair in realization. We’ve both gone through hell because he forgot to safeword!  
“How can I trust you Niall?” I ask in a low voice. “Ever?” I trusted him to use the safeword. I trusted him to follow certain rules; I’ve reminded him time and again. How could he do that?  
Just then the waiter arrives with the wine while we’re having a staring contest. He pours the wine into my glass, and I automatically take a sip.  
“That’s fine,” I say in a curt voice.  
The waiter fills our glasses, places the bottle on the table, and realizing the tension on the table, he hastily retreats. My gaze is glued on Niall with tension so thick; I can taste it in my mouth. I’m speechless. All I can do is to stare at him, and finally Niall breaks our eye contact, picks up his wine glass and takes a large gulp to borrow some courage from his cup.  
“I’m sorry,” he whispers. What? Why? Is he saying it like he did the night he left me? Is he trying to say ‘this isn’t going to work!’ I’m scared! Is this it?  
“Sorry for what?” I ask in an alarmed voice.  
“Not using the safeword,” he says and I feel myself washed with relief. There is hope after all! Thank you God!  
“We might have avoided all this suffering,” I mutter.  
“You look fine,” he says accusatory. I’m fine? I’ve died a thousand deaths every day! Sliced by a thousand superficial cuts, slowly bleeding to my death! My heart was ripped out and tossed at my feet! I’ve lost my reason for being! And you think I’ve been fine, Niall? How wrong you are!  
“Appearances can be deceptive,” I say quietly. “I’m anything but fine. I feel like the sun has set and not risen for five days, Nialler. I’m in perpetual night here,” I say my voice cracking. I’ve been through the damned hell, broken up, broken down, lost…  
“You said you’d never leave, yet the going gets tough and you’re out the door,” I say accusatory.  
“When did I say I’d never leave?” he asks.  
“In your sleep. It was the most comforting thing I’d heard in so long, Niall. It made me relax.” It was my lifeline, some hope I held onto.  
He says nothing. Nothing! He doesn’t look at me and reaches for his wine. Has his feelings changed for me? I want to know!  
“You said you loved me,” I whisper. “Is that now in the past tense?” I say in a low voice laced in anxiety. ‘Please say no! Please say no! Please say no Niall! Please!’ I plead in my head in a fervent prayer.   
“No, Zayn, it’s not,” he says finally, and I exhale a breath in relief I didn’t know I was holding. I gaze at him hope blossoming in my heart.  
“Good,” I murmur.  
I know I freaked out when he finally said he loved me when he was completely awake, and I felt undeserving of his love. But, I lately realized that I crave his love. I can’t live without it! I need it like I need air to breathe!  
The waiter arrives with our food, and places the plates in front of us and scuttles away in a hurried fashion knowing there's tension at the table.

“Eat,” I command.   
I want him to get better. He looks at his food perplexed, not taking a bite. Why aren’t you eating? You’re melting away before me like a block of ice in desert heat! My anger flares again.  
“So help me God, Niall James Horan, if you don’t eat, I will take you across my knee here in this restaurant, and it will have nothing to do with my sexual gratification. Eat!” I order forcefully.  
“Okay, I’ll eat. Stow your twitching palm, please,” he says.  
I keep glaring at him. I want him to start eating right now. He looks at his food again. Pick up his fork and knife. He finally slices into his steak and takes his first bite. After he starts chewing, I feel relief wash over me. Then I pick up my own knife and fork, and both of us eat in silence. He glances up at me, and catches me watching him while eating. I’m crazy for this man before me. Crazy about him. Crazy about everything he does. He and I have such a bond forged and I am nothing without him.  
“Do you know who is singing?” he says getting me out of reveries. For the first time, I pay attention to this song in the background. I’ve never heard the singer or the song, but it’s beautiful.  
“No…but she’s good, whoever she is,” I say smiling.  
“What?” he asks.  
I shake my head. “Eat up,” I say not giving anything away.  
After eating possibly only half of his food on his plate he said “I can’t manage any more. Have I eaten enough for Sir?”  
I stare at him impassively. I would really like him to finish all of his food, because he’s too thin. I don’t answer, and I want to check the time to see if Higgins is already here; if he’s not, I probably can push him to eat a few more bites.  
“I’m really full,” he adds and takes a sip of the wine.  
“We have to go shortly. Higgins’ here, and you have to be up for work in the morning.”  
“So do you,” he retorts.  
“I function on a lot less sleep than you do, Niall,” I say. “At least you’ve eaten something.” It makes me feel a little bit better knowing that he has something in his system.  
“Aren’t we going back via Zero John?”  
“No, I thought I might have a drink. Higgins will pick us up. Besides, this way I can have you in the car all to myself for a few hours, at least. What can we do but talk?” I say. I want this to work, and I’ll do everything in my power to have him give me a chance to speak and hear me out.  
I call the waiter, and ask for the check. I then pick my Blackberry up and call Higgins.  
“We’re at Le Picotin, Southwest Third Avenue,” I say giving him the address; I hang up.  
Niall looks up at me surprised at my abrupt conversation.  
“You’re very brusque with Higgins, in fact, with most people.”  
“I just get to the point quickly, Niall.”  
“You haven’t gotten to the point this evening. Nothing’s changed, Zayn,” he says. That’s where he’s wrong. Everything’s changed, and I aim to rectify all my errors.  
“I have a proposition for you,” I reply.  
“This started with a proposition,” he says almost mocking.  
“A different proposition,” I say. A good proposition, one I hope he will not be able to resist but to agree.  
The waiter comes back with my bill, and I hand him my card, impatient to get out of here. I gaze at him speculatively. I don’t want to say, what could have happened… what if? I will make the changes tonight. While the waiter is charging my credit card, my phone buzzes, and I look at it, seeing the text from higgins. He says he’s outside. I sign my credit card slip, and stand up, I proffer my hand to Niall.  
“Come. Higgins’ outside,” I say.  
We stand up, his hand in mine.  
“I don’t want to lose you Niall” I say with all my passion, I kiss his knuckles tenderly. Our connection makes me buzzing with all sorts of emotions, and desire.  
When we go outside, my Audi is waiting. I take Niall’s hand and lead him into the SUV. I go to the driver’s side, and Higgins, knowing I will ask something of him comes out of the vehicle.  
“Higgins, I want you to put your iPod on, and make sure your ear buds remain plugged until I tell you otherwise. Sync it with the car please, so I can verify it’s on.”  
“Yes, sir,” he says, and plugs in his ear buds in my presence.  
“Let’s go!”  
“Yes, sir.”  
After my instructions to Higgins are over, I return to my seat next to Niall. He glances at me quizzically, but, staring ahead, I give nothing away donning my impassive face.  
I see from peripheral vision that Niall’s watching me, examining, memorizing my features as if they may be the last time he’s looking at me. I let him take all of me in; see what he will have, because he won’t be losing me if I can help it...  
When finally Higgins syncs his iPod with the car’s sound system, a soft Puccini aria starts playing. He pulls the Audi into the light traffic, heading to London. This is my cue to start talking to Niall as Higgins is out of the hearing distance. I shift my body to turn to Niall to take him in face to face.  
“As I was saying, Niall, I have a proposition for you,” I say. With this he glances at Higgins nervously as if to say he’s embarrassed of talking in front of him.  
“Higgins can’t hear you,” I reassure him, but he’s doubtful.  
“How?”  
“Higgins?” I call, but he doesn’t respond. I call his name again once more, there is still no response. I lean in, and tap Higgins’ shoulder at which time Higgins removes one of the ear buds, and finally gives a response to my physical contact.  
“Yes, sir?” he inquires politely.  
“Thank you, Higgins. It’s alright; resume your listening.”  
“Sir,” he replies.  
“Happy now? He’s listening to his iPod. Puccini. Forget he’s here. I do,” I say nonchalantly.  
“Did you deliberately ask him to do that?”  
“Yes, I did,” I reply.  
He shakes his head as if to clear it from some errant thought, changes gears.   
“Okay, your proposition?”  
This is it. I have to lay all my cards, and I have to present my winning hand. I get my business face on; the one where I don’t intend to lose on a negotiation. Niall gets his ‘I’m negotiating a deal; you better not give me a fucked up deal,’ face on, pure attention.  
“Let me ask you something first. Do you want a regular vanilla relationship with no kinky fuckery at all?” I ask. We’ve never had problems in any sort of fuckery; kinky or otherwise, but I want to clear the air once and for all. If I were to go by the indications, he rather enjoyed them quite well. But, that doesn’t clarify what is in his heart; I need to hear it straight from his own lips.  
“Kinky fuckery?” he asks shocked and embarrassed with the company in the car though Higgins can’t hear a thing.  
“Kinky fuckery,” I confirm. That’s what it is, and I’ll call it by its real name.  
“I can’t believe you said that,” he says nervously glancing at Higgins.  
“Well, I did. Answer me,” I ask calmly and firmly. I need to clear out every aspect of our relationship as he’s not as communicative, and I will make damn sure that I will have no stone unturned to make him happy in every aspect one hundred percent.  
He flushes, and looks down his hands, shy.  
“I like your kinky fuckery,” he whispers in a small voice confirming my gut feeling. My inner sex god does a cartwheel in excitement. That’s one victory, but more subjects to be aired out to be completely through.  
“That’s what I thought. So what don’t you like?” I ask trying to completely comprehend his likes and dislikes. He looks at me, and sighs. Takes a deep breath as if to flush out some anxiety, some exasperation out of his system. He doesn’t speak a long moment, and I stare at him intently without even blinking.  
“The threat of cruel and unusual punishment,” he says. But, that expression means different things to different people. I have to know what it means to him.  
“What does that mean?” I ask.  
“Well, you have all those canes and whips and stuff in your playroom, and they frighten the living daylights out of me. I don’t want you to use them on me,” he says.   
“Okay, so no whips or canes – or belts, for that matter.” I say sardonically knowing what caused our breakup.  
He gazes at me puzzled, and trying to confirm if he’s heard me correctly, completely puzzled.  
“Are you attempting to redefine the hard limits?” he asks for clarification.  
“Not as such; I’m just trying to understand you, get a clearer picture of what you do and don’t like,” I explain. With that he gets a certain understanding and responds.

“Fundamentally, Zayn, it’s your joy in inflicting pain on me that’s difficult for me to handle. And the idea that you’ll do it because I have crossed some arbitrary line,” he says in one breath.  
“But it’s not arbitrary; the rules are written down,” I rebuttal.  
“I don’t want a set of rules,” he says. That’s what I thought. A man can still attempt to negotiate without giving away what he’s going to compromise.  
“None at all?” I ask trying to confirm.  
“No rules,” he says shaking his head. Damn lad! You should work for me with those negotiating skills. If you can bring me down to my knees, you can do that to anybody.  
“But you don’t mind if I spank you?” I ask.  
“Spank me with what?” he asks narrowing his eyes, businesslike, trying to get his best deal. And that’s good, because he too is on negotiating table, and he too is playing his best hand.  
“This,” I say holding up my hand. His demeanor changes with that show. He squirms involuntarily in a well contained excitement or with remembrance of the exciting moments we’ve had together just using my hands to spank in the fun, and sexual context.  
“No, not really,” he responds shyly, flushing. “Especially with those silver balls…” he drifts off. His response makes smile. I was right; he does enjoy the spanking in a sexual context.  
“Yes, that was fun,” I say remembering.  
“More than fun,” he mutters agreeing with me.  
“So you can deal with some pain,” I confirm. He shrugs nonchalantly.  
“Yes, I suppose,” he replies. His breathing becomes shallower and more rapid; his chest rising and falling rapidly.  
Hmm… There is hope for us yet, and my heart skips a beat with excitement. I stroke my chin, thinking hard how to word my proposal to get the best response from him.  
“Niall, I want to start again,” I say seeking fresh, and brand new beginning for both of us.   
“Do the vanilla thing and then maybe, once you trust me more and I trust you to be honest and to communicate with me, we could move on and do some of the things that I like to do,” I say laying out my compromise.  
He stares at me as if he’s heard me incorrectly, completely stunned with a blank expression. I can tell that this wasn’t the compromise he was expecting. I don’t know what he’s thinking. His face is devoid of any expressions. Primarily because he’s so stunned with what I’m willing to do for him, his expression reflects that the lights are on, but Niall stepped out for the moment kind of face… Finally he finds his voice and asks,   
“But what about punishments?”  
“No punishments,” I say shaking my head. I’ve decided on that concession the night he left me.  
“None,” I say by the way of confirming.  
“And the rules?” he asks.  
“No rules,” I say. Baby, you don’t know extents I would go to keep you!   
“None at all?” he asks incredulous. “But you have needs.”  
“I need you more, Niall. These last few days have been purgatory. All my instincts tell me to let you go, tell me I don’t deserve you.” I say sighing.  
“Those photos the boy took… Liam took,” I say correcting, “…I can see how he sees you. You look so untroubled and beautiful, not that you’re not beautiful now, but here you sit. I see your pain. It’s hard knowing that I’m the one who has made you feel this way.  
“But, I’m a selfish man. I’ve wanted you since you fell into my office. You are exquisite, honest, warm, strong, witty, beguilingly innocent; the list is endless. I am in awe of you. I want you, and the thought of anyone else having you is like a knife twisting in my dark soul.”  
Niall’s smart mouth is completely speechless; devoid of words. His chest is now rising and falling rapidly as if he’s running a particularly hard marathon, and he needs every molecule of air he can deposit into his lungs. All of a sudden, he gathers his thoughts, and words just spill out of his pores.  
“Zayn, why do you think you have a dark soul? I would never say that. Sad maybe, but you’re a good man. I can see that … you’re generous, you’re kind, and you’ve never lied to me. And I haven’t tried very hard,” he replies completely shocking me.  
“Last Saturday was such a shock to my system. It was my wake-up call. I realized that you’d been easy on me and that I couldn’t be the person you wanted me to be. Then, after I left, it dawned on me the physical pain you inflicted was not as bad as the pain of losing you. I do want to please you, but it’s hard,” he utters.  
“You please me all the time,” I whisper to him. “How often will I have to tell you that?”  
“I never know what you’re thinking. Sometimes you’re so closed off… like an island state. You intimidate me. That’s why I keep quiet. I don’t know which way your mood is going to go. It swings from north to south and back again in a nanosecond. It’s confusing and you won’t let me touch you, and I want to so much to show you how much I love you,” he utters completely shocking me.  
His declaration completely surprises me. I thought he stopped loving me, and he didn’t give me any indication since I picked him up otherwise making my already overwhelmed heart burdened with more worry. But what he had said just now, completely washes me with serenity, soothes the tornadoes that have been brewing in me since he left. First time in a week, I feel elated, and truly happy. If this is not heaven, I don’t know what is! I blink in the darkness, and warily, unable to completely comprehend if this is exactly what I heard.  
He unbuckles his seatbelt and scramble onto my lap, shocking me so much that he could have knocked me with a feather. He takes my head into his hands.  
“I love you, Zayn Malik. And you’re prepared to do all this for me. I’m the one who is undeserving, and I’m just sorry that I can’t do all those things for you. Maybe with time… I don’t know… but yes, I accept your proposition. Where do I sign?” he declares.  
If I died right now, I’d die a happy man! He never stopped loving me! He’s willing to make concessions, accommodate my needs. Oh, God! Thank you! Thank you! Thank you for hearing me! Finally I realize that this is not a dream, not a trick my brain is playing on me, and that Niall really truly loves me; ME! This insignificant man! I snake my arms around him and crush him to me.  
“Oh, Nialler!” I breathe ad I bury my nose in his hair, inhaling his scent, kissing his hair. We sit, wrapped around each other, listening to a soothing piano music, completely reflecting what we are feeling right now, a tranquil tone. He just snuggles into my arms resting his head in the crook of my neck. I just stroke his back soothing both of our ravaged souls with the events of last week.  
“Touching is a hard limit for me, Niall,” I whisper. I want more than anything for him to touch me, explore where no one has ever been allowed. But, I just can’t, and it kills me that I have to deny that to him.  
“I know. I wish I understood why,” he whispers. I sigh. He deserves to know. He’s made so many concessions for me, and I want to openly communicate with him.  
“I had a horrific childhood. One of the crack whore’s pimps…” I say in a soft voice, trailing off. Tension comes back to my body with remembrance of the tortures, punishments, and beatings by the pimp.   
“I can remember that,” I whisper shuddering. He takes a sharp breath in, worrying for me, and tightens his arms around my neck as if to reassure me, soothe and comfort me. It is the most human, most welcome reaction I have had from him. He loves me!  
“Was she abusive? Your mother, I mean?” he asks in a low soft voice laced with emotion.  
“Not that I remember. She was neglectful. She didn’t protect me from her pimp,” I say recalling.  
I snort and say, “I think it was me who looked after her. When she finally killed herself, it took four days for someone to raise the alarm and find us… I remember that,” I say. Indeed that’s a nightmare played over and over again almost every night.  
Niall gasps in horror. “That’s pretty fucked-up,” he whispers.  
“Fifty shades,” I murmur.   
Now he has some idea of my issues and sharing that information with him lifts some walls off between us. Niall responds by pressing his lips against my neck, offering solace, and his love in his kiss. He inhales me, seeking connection, touching my soul. I’m complete with him. I tighten my arms around him and kiss his hair. I am a happy man as we are wrapped in each other’s embrace. There’s not another thing, not another person I want in this moment other than Niall cradled in my arms right now.  
While I hold him like this, he slowly and peacefully drifts into sleep. I watch him long minutes. Stroke his hair, smelling his manly scent, clean soap, fresh outdoors, and his particular brand of scent uniquely Nialler. What I wouldn’t do for him. The knowledge that he’s mine once again, relives me. I will either cry, or do a cartwheel with relief and joy neither of which is appropriate for the place and time we are in.  
We drive like that all the way to London, and Niall finally wakes up as we are driving through the city.  
“Hey,” I say softly to his sleepy gaze.  
“Sorry,” he softly apologizes, blinking and stretching, trying to gain his bearing. He’s still in my arms, and I have no intention of letting him off.  
“I can watch you sleep forever, Blondie,” I say.  
“Did I say anything?” he asks remembering his other nocturnal confessions.  
“No. We’re nearly at your place,” I say which surprises him.  
“We’re not going to your place?” he asks.  
“No,” I reply.  
He sits up gazing at me, trying to decipher my face as if it’s a piece of complicated puzzle.   
“Why not?” he inquires.  
“Because you have work tomorrow,” I simply state, and it’s the truth, but not the complete truth.  
“Oh,” he says pouting with realization.   
Although, he doesn’t have to work, and should call in sick, I’d rather wait, and have him pine for me; I aim for him to beg. If I gave it, that would defeat the purpose. It’ll give both of us sweet torture, but the love making afterwards will be much more intense, and passionate.  
I smirk at his expression. “Why, did you have something in mind?” I ask mischievously.  
He flushes. Yep, he had other ideas. “Well, maybe,” he replies.  
I chuckle at his response. “Niall, I’m not going to touch you again, not until you beg me to.” This piece of information shocks him.  
“What!” he exclaims.  
“So that you’ll start communicating with me. Next time we make love, you’re going to have to tell me exactly what you want in fine detail.”  
“Oh,” he says. I shift him off my lap as Higgins pulls up outside of his apartment complex. I climb out of the car, and hold the door open for him.  
“I have something for you,” I say moving to the trunk of the car, and pull out a large giftwrapped box containing his belongings; laptop, Blackberry, iPad and his car keys. He looks at me speculatively; curious.  
“Open it when you get inside,” I say.  
“You’re not coming in?” he asks surprised.  
“No, Niall,” I reply.  
“So, when will I see you?” he asks, and I have longed to hear that from him for what feels like a very long time.  
“Tomorrow,” I respond. And even tomorrow isn’t close enough, but I want him to beg in anticipation.  
“My boss wants me to go for a drink with him tomorrow,” he says, and I automatically get upset, my face hardens.   
“Does he now?” I say menacingly. Fucking bastard is already moving in on my man.   
“To celebrate my first week,” he adds quickly. There are all sorts of men work for men; they don’t all go out for a celebratory drink of their first week unless the guy wants to get into his pants.  
“Where?” I ask.  
“I don’t know.”  
“I could pick you up from there,” I reply.  
“Okay... I’ll e-mail or text you.”  
“Good.”  
I walk him to the lobby door, and wait for him to fish out his keys. The sight of him, here, in my presence, with me unfurls something inside. I lean in and cup his chin, tilting his head back. As my mouth hovers over his, I close my eyes and run a trail of kisses from the corner of his eye to his mouth, but I stop short of his lips. A desirous moan escapes him wanting, and expecting more.  
“Until tomorrow,” I breathe.  
“Goodnight Zayn,” he whispers laden with need and want. It’s working. Knowing that makes me smile.  
“In you go,” I order, and he walks through the lobby.  
“Laters, baby,” I call out to him, and walk back to the car completely relieved. I’m so curious to see what he will think, how he will react to my apology. I hope he loves it. I hope he understands what I want to say to him that I can’t say out loud. Not yet anyway.  
Higgins speeds away to Escala. He too is visibly relaxes after the last week’s horrors, and tension he and Mrs. Jones had to endure. He drops me off.  
“Thank you Higgins,” I say and a genuine smile creeps on his face.  
“You’re most welcome sir,” he replies.  
I go up to my apartment. Shed my clothes off to more comfortable pajama bottoms. I go and pour myself a glass of wine, and make my way to the piano. First time in a long time, I feel like playing something happy.  
I hear my Blackberry buzzing on top of the piano. It’s Niall.

From: Niall Horan  
Subject: IPAD  
Date: June 9 2011 23:56  
To: Zayn Malik  
You’ve made me cry again.  
I love the iPad.  
I love the songs.  
I love the British Library App.  
I love you.  
Thank you.  
Goodnight.

Nialler xx

His simple response makes me instantly joyous. 

From: Zayn Malik  
Subject: IPAD  
Date: June 10 2011 00:03  
To: Niall Horan

I’m glad you like it. I bought one for myself. Now, if I were there, I would kiss away your tears.  
But I’m not, so go to sleep.  
Zayn Malik  
CEO, Malik Enterprises Holdings Inc.

 

I wish I was there to hold him, to see his reaction, to kiss away his tears. But it will have to wait.

From: Niall Horan  
Subject: Mr. Grumpy  
Date: June 10 2011 00:07  
To: Zayn Malik

You sound your usual bossy and possibly tense, possibly grumpy self, Mr. Malik.  
I know something that could ease that. But then, you’re not here – you wouldn’t let me stay, and you expect me to beg...  
Dream on Sir.

Nialler xx

PS: I also note that you included the Stalker’s Anthem, “Every Breath You Take,” I do enjoy your sense of humor, but does Dr. Flynn know?

I have missed his smart mouth; I’m contemplating the creative ways in which to render some enjoyable punishment. 

 

From: Zayn Malik  
Subject: Zen-like calm  
Date: June 10 2011 00:10  
To: Niall Horan

My Dearest Blondie,

Spanking occurs in vanilla relationships, too, you know. Usually consensually and in a sexual context... but I am more than happy to make an exception.  
You’ll be relieved to know that Dr. Flynn also enjoys my sense of humor.   
Now, please go to sleep as you won’t get much tomorrow.  
Incidentally – you will beg, trust me. And I look very much forward to it.

Zayn Malik  
Tense CEO, Malik Enterprises Holdings Inc.

I hit send, and more than ever now I wish he was here. But, patience is a virtue, and at this time, I do want him to beg, and want me as he has never wanted me before.

 

From: Niall Horan  
Subject: Goodnight, Sweet dreams  
Date: June 10 2011 00:12  
To: Zayn Malik

Well, since you ask so nicely, and I like your delicious threat, I shall curl up with the iPad that you have so kindly given me and fall asleep browsing in the British Library, listening to the music that says it for you

Nialler xxxx

I love it when he acquiesces. I love it when he argues. I love it when he’s mad. I love it when he is loving me!

 

From: Zayn Malik  
Subject: one more request  
Date: June 10 2011 00:15  
To: Niall Horan

Dream of me.  
x

Zayn Malik  
Tense CEO, Malik Enterprises Holdings Inc.

First time in a week, Niall’s image in my head chases away the nightmares, and I have a peaceful sleep, devoid of the pimp or the horrors he inflicted on me. Dreams of just me and Niall.


	3. PROLOGUE

PROLOGUE

He's come back. Mummy's asleep or she's sick again.

I hide and curl up small under the table in the kitchen. Through my fingers I can see Mummy. She is asleep on the couch. Her hand is on the sticky green rug, and he's wearing his big boots with the shiny buckle and standing over Mummy shouting.

He hits Mummy with a belt. Get up! Get up! You are one fucked-up bitch. You are one fucked-up bitch. You are one fucked-up bitch. You are one fucked-up bitch. You are one fucked-up bitch. You are one fucked-up bitch.

Mummy makes a sobbing noise. Stop. Please stop. Mummy doesn't scream. Mummy curls up small.

I have my fingers in my ears, and I close my eyes. The sound stops.

He turns and I can see his boots as he stomps into the kitchen. He still has the belt. He is trying to find me.

He stoops down and grins. He smells nasty. Of cigarettes and drink. There you are, you little shit.

A chilling wail wakes him. Christ! He's drenched in sweat and his heart is pounding. What the fuck? He sits bolt upright in bed and puts his head in hands. Fuck. They're back. The noise was me. He takes a deep steadying breath, trying to rid his mind and nostrils of the smell of cheap bourbon and stale Camel cigarettes.


	4. CHAPTER 3

NIALL’S P.O.V

The one good thing about being car-less is that on the bus on my way to work, I can plug my headphones into my iPad while it's safely in my purse and listen to all the wonderful tunes Zayn has given me. By the time I arrive at the office, I have the most ludicrous grin on my face.  
Jack glances up at me and does a double take.  
"Good morning, nialler. You look . . . radiant." His remark flusters me. How inappropriate!   
"I slept well, thank you, Jack. Good morning." His brow crinkles.  
"Can you read these for me and have reports on them by lunchtime, please?" He hands me four manuscripts. At my horrified expression, he adds, "Just first chapters."  
"Sure," I smile with relief, and he gives me a broad smile in return.  
I switch on the computer to start work, finishing my latte and eating a banana. There's an e-mail from Zayn.

From: Zayn Malik  
Subject: So Help Me . . .  
Date: June 10, 2011 08:05   
To: Niall Horan

I do hope you've had breakfast.  
I missed you last night.

Zayn Malik   
CEO, Malik Enterprises Holdings Inc.

From:Niall Horan   
Subject: Old books . . .   
Date: June 10, 2011 08:33   
To: Zayn Malik

I am eating a banana as I type. I have not had breakfast for several days, so it is a step forward. I love the British Library App—I started rereading Robinson Crusoe . . . and of course, I love you.  
Now leave me alone—I am trying to work.

Niall Horan   
Assistant to Jack Hyde, Commissioning Editor, LIP

From: Zayn Malik   
Subject: Is that all you've eaten?   
Date: June 10, 2011 08:36   
To: Niall Horan

You can do better than that. You're going to need your energy for begging.

Zayn Malik   
CEO, Malik Enterprises Holdings Inc.

From: Niall Horan   
Subject: Pest   
Date: June 10, 2011 08:39   
To: Zayn Malik

Mr. Malik—I am trying to work for a living—and it's you that will be begging.

Niall Horan   
Assistant to Jack Hyde, Commissioning Editor, LIP

From: Zayn Malik   
Subject: Bring it On!   
Date: June 10, 2011 08:36   
To: Niall Horan

Why Blondie, I love a challenge . . .

Zayn Malik   
CEO, Malik Enterprises Holdings Inc.

I sit grinning at the screen like an idiot. But I need to read these chapters for Jack and write reports on all of them. Placing the manuscripts on my desk, I begin.  
At lunchtime I head to the deli for a pastrami sandwich and listen to the playlist on my iPad. First up there's Nitin Sawhney, some world music called "Homelands"—it's good.  
Mr. Malik has an eclectic taste in music. I wander back, listening to a classical piece, Fantasia on a Theme of Thomas Tallis by Vaughn Williams. Oh, Fifty has a sense of humor, and I love him for it. Will this stupid grin ever leave my face?  
The afternoon drags. I decide, in an unguarded moment, to e-mail Zayn.

From: Niall Horan   
Subject: Bored . . .   
Date: June 10, 2011 16:05   
To: Zayn Malik

Twiddling my thumbs.  
How are you?  
What are you doing?

Niall Horan   
Assistant to Jack Hyde, Commissioning Editor, LIP

From: Zayn Malik  
Subject: Your thumbs  
Date: June 10, 2011 16:15  
To: Niall Horan

You should have come to work for me.  
You wouldn't be twiddling your thumbs.  
I am sure I could put them to better use.  
In fact I can think of a number of options . . .  
I am doing the usual humdrum mergers and acquisitions.  
It's all very dry.  
Your e-mails at LIP are monitored.

Zayn Malik  
Distracted CEO, Malik Enterprises Holdings Inc.

Oh shit. I had no idea. How the hell does he know? I scowl at the screen and quickly check the e-mails we've sent, deleting them as I do.  
Promptly at five thirty, Jack is at my desk. It is Dress-down Friday so he's wearing jeans and a black shirt. He looks very casual.  
"Drink, Nialler? We usually like to go for a quick one at the bar across the street."  
"We?" I ask, hopeful.  
"Yeah, most of us go . . . you coming?"  
For some unknown reason, which I don't want to examine too closely, relief floods through me.  
"I'd love to. What's the bar called?"  
"50s."  
"You're kidding."  
He looks at me oddly. "No. Some significance for you?"  
"No, sorry. I'll join you over there."  
"What would you like to drink?"  
"A beer please."  
"Cool."  
I make my way to the powder room and e-mail Zayn from the Blackberry.

From: Niall Horan  
Subject: You'll Fit Right In  
Date: June 10, 2011 17:36  
To: Zayn Malik

We are going to a bar called Fifty's.  
The rich seam of humor that I could mine from this is endless.  
I look forward to seeing you there, Mr. Malik.  
N x

From: Zayn Malik  
Subject: Hazards  
Date: June 10, 2011 17:38  
To: Niall Horan

Mining is a very, very dangerous occupation.

Zayn Malik  
CEO, Malik Enterprises Holdings Inc.

From: Niall Horan  
Subject: Hazards?  
Date: June 10, 2011 17:40  
To: Zayn Malik

And your point is?

From: Zayn Malik  
Subject: Merely . . .  
Date: June 10, 2011 17:42  
To: Niall Horan

Making an observation, Mr. Horan.  
I'll see you shortly.  
Sooners rather than laters, baby.

Zayn Malik  
CEO, Malik Enterprises Holdings Inc.

I check myself in the mirror. What a difference a day can make. I have more color in my cheeks, and my eyes are shining. It's the Zayn Malik effect. A little e-mail sparring with him will do that to a lad. I grin at the mirror and straighten my pale blue shirt—the one Higgins bought me. I am wearing my favorite jeans today, too. Most of the people in the office wear either jeans or floaty skirts. I will need to invest in a skinny jeans or two. Perhaps I'll do that this weekend and bank the check Zayn gave me for Justin, my Beetle.  
As I head out of the building, I hear my name called.  
"Mr. Horan?"  
I turn expectantly, and an ashen young woman approaches me cautiously. She looks like a ghost—so pale and strangely blank.  
"Mr. Niall Horan?" she repeats, and her features stay static even though she's speaking.  
"Yes?"  
She stops, staring at me from about three feet away on the sidewalk, and I stare back, immobilized. Who is she? What does she want?  
"Can I help you?" I ask. How does she know my name?  
"No . . . I just wanted to look at you." Her voice is eerily soft. Like me, she has blonde hair that starkly contrasts with her fair skin. Her eyes are blue, like the sea, but flat.  
There's no life in them at all. Her beautiful face is pale, and etched with sorrow.  
"Sorry—you have me at a disadvantage," I say politely, trying to ignore the warning tingle up my spine. On closer inspection, she looks odd, disheveled and uncared for. Her clothes are two sizes too big, including her designer trench coat.  
She laughs, a strange, discordant sound that only feeds my anxiety.  
"What do you have that I don't?" she asks sadly.  
My anxiety turns to fear. "I'm sorry—who are you?"  
"Me? I'm nobody." She lifts her arm to drag her hand through her shoulder length hair, and as she does, the sleeve of her trench coat rides up, revealing a soiled bandage around her wrist.  
Holy fuck.  
"Good day, Mr. Horan." Turning, she walks up the street as I stand rooted to the spot.  
I watch as her slight frame disappears from view, lost amongst the workers pouring out of their various offices.  
What was that about?  
Confused, I cross the street to the bar, trying to assimilate what has just happened, while my subconscious rears his ugly head and hisses at me— She has something to do with Zayn.  
Fifty's is a cavernous, impersonal bar with football pennants and posters hanging on the wall. Jack is at the bar with Elizabeth, Courtney the other commissioning editor, two guys from finance, and Claire from reception. She is wearing her trademark silver hooped earrings.  
"Hi, Nialler!" Jack hands me a pint.  
"Cheers . . . thank you," I murmur, still shaken by my encounter with Ghost Girl.  
"Cheers." We clink glasses, and he continues his conversation with Elizabeth. Claire smiles sweetly at me.  
"So, how has your first week been?" she asks.  
"Good, thank you. Everyone seems very friendly."  
"You seem much happier today."  
I flush. "It's Friday," I mutter quickly. "So—have you any plans this weekend?" My patented distraction technique works and I'm saved. Claire turns out to be one of seven kids, and she's going to a big family get-together in Chesire. She becomes quite animated, and I realize I haven't spoken to anyone my own age since Louis left for Barbados.  
Absently I wonder how Louis is . . . and Harry. I must remember to ask Zayn if he's heard from him. Oh, and Andy his brother will be back next Tuesday, and he'll be staying in our apartment. I can't imagine Zayn is going to be happy about that. My earlier encounter with strange Ghost Girl slips further from my mind.  
During my conversation with Claire, Elizabeth hands me another pint.  
"Thanks," I smile at her.  
Claire is very easy to talk to—she likes to talk—and before I know it, I am on my third beer, courtesy of one of the guys from finance.  
When Elizabeth and Courtney leave, Jack joins Claire and me. Where is Zayn?  
One of the finance guys engages Claire in conversation.  
"Nialler, think you made the right decision coming here?" Jack's voice is soft, and he's standing a bit too close. But I've noticed that he has a tendency to do this with everyone, even at the office. My subconscious narrows his eyes. You're reading too much into this, he admonishes me.  
"I've enjoyed myself this week, thank you, Jack. Yes, I think I made the right decision."  
"You're a very bright lad, Ni. You'll go far."  
I blush. "Thank you," I mutter, because I don't know what else to say.  
"Do you live far?"  
"The Pike Market district."  
"Not far from me." Smiling, he moves even closer and leans against the bar, effectively trapping me. "Do you have any plans this weekend?"  
"Welll. . . um—"  
I feel him before I see him. It's as if my whole body is highly attuned to his presence.  
It relaxes and ignites at the same time—a weird, internal duality—and I sense that strange pulsing electricity.  
Zayn drapes his arm around my shoulder in a seemingly casual display of affection—but I know differently. He is staking a claim, and on this occasion, it's very welcome.  
Softly he kisses my hair.  
"Hello, baby," he murmurs.  
I can't help but feel relieved, safe, and excited with his arm around me. He draws me to his side, and I glance up at him while he stares at Jack, his expression impassive. Turning his attention to me, he gives me a brief crooked smile followed by a swift kiss. He's wearing his navy pinstriped jacket over jeans and an open white shirt. He looks edible.  
Jack shuffles back uncomfortably.  
"Jack, this is Zayn," I mumble apologetically. Why am I apologizing? "Zayn, Jack."  
"I'm the boyfriend," Zayn says with a small, cool smile that doesn't reach his eyes as he shakes Jack's hand. I glance up at Jack who is mentally assessing the fine specimen of manhood in front of him.  
"I'm the boss," Jack replies arrogantly. "Ni did mention an ex-boyfriend." Oh, shit. You don't want to play this game with Fifty.  
"Well, no longer ex," Zayn replies calmly. "Come on, baby, time to go."  
"Please, stay and join us for a drink," Jack says smoothly.  
I don't think that's a good idea. Why is this so uncomfortable? I glance at Claire, who is, of course staring, open-mouthed and with frankly carnal appreciation at Zayn.  
When will I stop caring about the effect he has on other women?  
"We have plans," Zayn replies with his enigmatic smile.  
We do? And a frisson of anticipation runs through my body.  
"Another time, perhaps," he adds. "Come," he says to me as he takes my hand.  
"See you Monday." I smile at Jack, Claire, and the guys from finance, trying hard to ignore Jack's less-than-pleased expression, and follow Zayn out of the door.  
Higgins is at the wheel of the Audi waiting at the curb.  
"Why did that feel like a pissing contest?" I ask Zayn as he opens the car door for me.   
"Because it was," he murmurs and gives me his enigmatic smile then shuts my door.  
"Hello, Higgins," I say and our eyes meet in the review mirror.  
"Mr. Horan," Higgins acknowledges with a genial smile.  
Zayn slides in beside me, clasps my hand, and gently kisses my knuckles.   
"Hi," he says softly.  
My cheeks turn pink, knowing that Higgins can hear us, grateful that he can't see the scorching, underwear-combusting look that Zayn is giving me. It takes all my self-restraint not to leap on him right here, in the back seat of the car.  
Oh, the back seat of the car . . . hmm. My inner god strokes his chin gently in quiet contemplation.  
"Hi," I breathe, my mouth dry.  
"What would you like to do this evening?"  
"I thought you said we had plans."  
"Oh, I know what I'd like to do, Niall. I'm asking you what you want to do." I beam at him.  
"I see," he says with a wickedly salacious grin.   
"So . . . begging it is, then. Do you want to beg at my place or yours?" He tilts his head to one side and smiles his oh-so-sexy smile at me.  
"I think you're being very presumptuous, Mr. Malik. But by way of a change, we could go to my apartment." I bite my lip deliberately, and his expression darkens.  
"Higgins, Mr. Horan’s, please."  
"Sir," Higgins acknowledges and he heads off into the traffic.  
"So how has your day been?" he asks.  
"Good. Yours?"  
"Good, thank you."  
His ridiculously broad grin reflects mine, and he kisses my hand again.  
"You look lovely," he says.  
"As do you."  
"Your boss, Jack Hyde, is he good at his job?"  
Whoa! That's a sudden change in direction? I frown. "Why? This isn't about your pissing contest?"  
Zayn smirks. "That man wants into your pants, Niall," he says dryly.  
I go crimson as my mouth drops open, and I glance nervously at Higgins. My subconscious inhales sharply, shocked.  
"Well, he can want all he likes . . . why are we even having this conversation? You know I have no interest in him whatsoever. He's just my boss."  
"That's the point. He wants what's mine. I need to know if he's good at his job." I shrug.   
"I think so." Where is he going with this?  
"Well, he'd better leave you alone, or he'll find himself on his ass on the sidewalk."  
"Oh, Zayn, what are you talking about? He hasn't done anything wrong." . . . Yet.  
He just stands too close.  
"He makes one move, you tell me. It's called gross moral turpitude—or sexual harassment."  
"It was just a drink after work."  
"I mean it. One move and he's out."  
"You don't have that kind of power." Honestly! And before I roll my eyes at him, the realization hits me with the force of a speeding freight truck. "Do you, Zayn?" Zayn gives me his enigmatic smile.  
"You're buying the company," I whisper in horror.  
His smile slips in response to the panic in my voice. "Not exactly," he says.  
"You've bought it. LIP. Already."  
He blinks at me, warily. "Possibly."  
"You have or you haven't?"  
"Have."  
What the hell?   
"Why?" I gasp, appalled. Oh, this just is too much.  
"Because I can, Niall. I need you safe."  
"But you said you wouldn't interfere in my career!"  
"And I won't."  
I snatch my hand out of his.   
"Zayn . . ." Words fail me.  
"Are you mad at me?"  
"Yes. Of course I'm mad at you." I seethe.   
"I mean, what kind of responsible business executive makes decisions based on who they are currently fucking?" I blanch and glance nervously once more at Higgins who is stoically ignoring us.  
Shit. What a time to have a brain-to-mouth filter malfunction. Niall! My subconscious glares at me.  
Zayn opens his mouth then closes it again and scowls at me. I glare at him. The atmosphere in the car plunges from warm with sweet reunion to frigid with unspoken words and potential recriminations as we glower at each other.  
Fortunately, our uncomfortable car journey doesn't last long, and Higgins pulls up outside my apartment.  
I scramble out of the car quickly, not waiting for anyone to open the door.  
I hear Zayn mutter to Higgins, "I think you'd better wait here."   
I sense him standing close behind me as I struggle to find the front door keys in my bag.  
"Niall," he says calmly as if I'm some cornered wild animal.  
I sigh and turn to face him. I am so mad at him, my anger is palpable—a dark entity threatening to choke me.  
"First, I haven't fucked you for a while—a long while, it feels—and second, I wanted to get into publishing. Of the four companies in London, LIP is the most profitable, but it's on the cusp and it's going to stagnate—it needs to branch out." I stare frigidly at him. His eyes are so intense, threatening even, but sexy as hell. I could get lost in their steely depths.  
"So you're my boss now," I snap.  
"Technically, I'm your boss's boss's boss."  
"And, technically, it's gross moral turpitude—the fact that I am fucking my boss's boss's boss."  
"At the moment, you're arguing with him." Zayn scowls.  
"That's because he's such an arse," I hiss.  
Zayn steps back in stunned surprise. Oh shit. Have I gone too far?  
"An arse?" he murmurs as his expression changes to one of amusement.  
Goddamn it! I am mad at you, do not make me laugh!  
"Yes." I struggle to maintain my look of moral outrage.  
"An arse?" Zayn says again. This time his lips twitch with a repressed smile.  
"Don't make me laugh when I am mad at you!" I shout.  
And he smiles, a dazzling, full-toothed, all- boyish smile, and I can't help it. I am grinning and laughing, too. How could I not be affected by the joy I see in his smile?  
"Just because I have a stupid damn grin on my face doesn't mean I'm not mad as hell at you," I mutter breathlessly, trying to suppress my high-school-cheerleader giggling.  
Though I was never cheerleader—the bitter thought crosses my mind.  
He leans in, and I think he's going to kiss me but he doesn't. He nuzzles my hair and inhales deeply.  
"As ever, Blondie, you are unexpected." He leans back and gazes at me, his eyes dancing with humor. "So are you going to invite me in, or am I to be sent packing for exercising my right as a British citizen, entrepreneur, and consumer to purchase whatever I damn well please?"  
"Have you spoken to Dr. Flynn about this?"  
He laughs. "Are you going to let me in or not, Niall?" I try for a grudging look—biting my lip helps—but I'm smiling as I open the door.  
Zayn turns and waves to Higgins, and the Audi pulls away.  
It's odd having Zayn Malik in the apartment. The place feels too small for him.  
I am still mad at him—his stalking knows no bounds, and it dawns on me that this is how he knew about the e-mail being monitored at LIP. He probably knows more about LIP than I do. The thought is unsavory.  
What can I do? Why does he have this need to keep me safe? I am a grown-up— sort of—for heaven's sake. What can I do to reassure him?  
I gaze at his beautiful face as he paces the room like a caged predator, and my anger subsides. Seeing him here in my space when I thought we were over is heartwarming.  
More than heartwarming, I love him, and my heart swells with a nervous, heady elation.  
He glances around, assessing his surroundings.  
"Nice place," he says.  
"Lou's parents bought it for him."  
He nods distractedly, and his bold brown eyes come to rest on mine, staring at me.  
"Er . . . would you like a drink?" I mutter, flushing with nerves.  
"No, thank you, Niall." His eyes darken.  
Oh crap. Why am I so nervous?  
"What would you like to do, Niall?" he asks softly as he walks toward me, all feral and hot. "I know what I want to do," he adds in a low voice.  
I back up until I bump against the concrete kitchen island.  
"I'm still mad at you."  
"I know." He smiles a lopsided apologetic smile and I melt . . . Well, maybe not so mad.  
"Would you like something to eat?" I ask.  
He nods slowly. "Yes. You," he murmurs. Everything south of my waistline clenches.  
I'm seduced by his voice alone, but that look, that hungry I-want-you-now look—oh my.  
He's standing in front of me, not quite touching, staring down into my eyes and bathing me in the heat that's radiating off his body. I'm stiflingly hot, flustered, and my legs are like jelly as dark desire courses through me. I want him.  
"Have you eaten today?" he murmurs.  
"I had a sandwich at lunch," I whisper. I don't want to talk food.  
He narrows his eyes. "You need to eat."  
"I'm really not hungry right now . . . for food."  
"What are you hungry for, Blondie?"  
"I think you know, Mr. Malik."  
He leans down, and again I think he's going to kiss me, but he doesn't.  
"Do you want me to kiss you, Niall?" he whispers softly in my ear.  
"Yes," I breathe.  
"Where?"  
"Everywhere."  
"You're going to have to be a bit more specific than that. I told you I am not going to touch you until you beg me and tell me what to do."  
My inner god is writhing on his chaise longue. I am lost; he's not playing fair.  
"Please," I whisper.  
"Please what?"  
"Touch me."  
"Where, baby?"  
He is so tantalizingly close, his scent intoxicating. I reach up, and immediately he steps back.  
"No, no," he chides, his eyes suddenly wide and alarmed.  
"What?" No . . . come back.  
"No." He shakes his head.  
"Not at all?" I can't keep the longing out of my voice.  
He looks at me uncertainly, and I'm emboldened by his hesitation. I step toward him, and he steps back, holding up his hands in defense, but smiling.  
"Look, Ni." It's a warning, and he runs his hand through his hair, exasperated.  
"Sometimes you don't mind," I observe plaintively. "Perhaps I should find a marker pen, and we could map out the no-go areas."  
He raises an eyebrow. "That's not a bad idea. Where's your bedroom?" I nod in the direction. Is he deliberately changing the subject?  
"Have you been taking your pill?"  
Oh shit. My pill.  
His face falls at my expression.  
"No," I squeak.  
"I see," he says, and his lips press into a thin line. "Come, let's have something to eat." Oh no!  
"I thought we were going to bed! I want to go to bed with you."  
"I know, baby." He smiles, and suddenly darting toward me, he grabs my wrists and pulls me into his arms so that his body is pressed against mine.  
"You need to eat and so do I," he murmurs, burning brown eyes gazing down at me.  
"Besides . . . anticipation is the key to seduction, and right now, I'm really into delayed gratification."  
Huh, since when?  
"I'm seduced and I want my gratification now. I'll beg, please." I sound whiney. My inner godd is beside himself.  
He smiles at me tenderly. "Eat. You're too slender." He kisses my forehead and releases me.  
This is a game, part of some evil plan. I scowl at him.  
"I'm still mad that you bought LIP, and now I am mad at you because you're making me wait." I pout.  
"You are one angry little lad, aren't you? You'll feel better after a good meal."  
"I know what I'll feel better after."  
"Niall Horan, I'm shocked." His tone is gently mocking.  
"Stop teasing me. You don't fight fair."  
He stifles his grin by biting his lower lip. He looks simply adorable . . . playful Zayn toying with my libido. If only my seduction skills were better, I'd know what to do, but not being able to touch him does hamper me.  
My inner god narrows his eyes and looks thoughtful. We need to work on this.  
As Zayn and I gaze at each other—me hot, bothered and yearning and him, relaxed and amused at my expense—I realize I have no food in the apartment.  
"I could cook something—except we'll have to go shopping."  
"Shopping?"  
"For groceries."  
"You have no food here?" His expression hardens.  
I shake my head. Crap, he looks quite angry.  
"Let's go shopping, then," he says sternly as he turns on his heel and heads for the door, opening it wide for me.  
"When was the last time you were in a supermarket?"  
Zayn looks out of place, but he follows me dutifully, holding a shopping basket.  
"I can't remember."  
"Does Mrs. Jones do all the shopping?"  
"I think Higgins helps her. I'm not sure."  
"Are you happy with a stir-fry? It's quick."  
"Stir-fry sounds good." Zayn grins, no doubt figuring out my ulterior motive for a speedy meal.  
"Have they worked for you long?"  
"Higgins, four years, I think. Mrs. Jones about the same. Why didn't you have any food in the apartment?"  
"You know why," I murmur, flushing.  
"It was you who left me," he mutters disapprovingly.  
"I know," I reply in a small voice, not wanting that reminder.  
We reach the checkout and silently stand in line.  
If I hadn't left, would he have offered the vanilla alternative? I wonder idly.  
"Do you have anything to drink?" He pulls me back to the present.  
"Beer . . . I think."  
"I'll get some wine."  
Oh dear. I'm not sure what sort of wine is available in Ernie's Supermarket. Zayn remerges empty handed, grimacing with a look of disgust.  
"There's a good liquor store next door," I say quickly.  
"I'll see what they have."  
Maybe we should just go to his place, then we wouldn't have all this hassle. I watch as he strolls purposefully and with easy grace out of the door. Two women coming in stop and stare. Oh yes, eye my Fifty Shades, I think despondently.  
I want the memory of him in my bed, but he's playing hard to get. Maybe I should, too.  
My inner god nods frantically in agreement. And as I stand in line, we come up with a plan. Hmm . . .  
Zayn carries the grocery bags into the apartment. He's carried them as we've walked back to the apartment from the store. He looks odd. Not his usual CEO demeanor at all.  
"You look very—domestic."  
"No one has ever accused me of that before," he says dryly. He places the bags on the kitchen island. As I start to unload them, he takes out a bottle of white wine and searches for a corkscrew.  
"This place is still new to me. I think the opener is in that drawer there." I point with my chin.  
This feels so . . . normal. Two people, getting to know each other, having a meal. Yet it's so strange. The fear that I'd always felt in his presence has gone. We've already done so much together, I blush just thinking about it, and yet I hardly know him.  
"What are you thinking about?" Zayn interrupts my reverie as he shrugs out of his pinstripe jacket and places it on the couch.  
"How little I know you, really."  
He gazes at me and his eyes soften. "You know me better than anyone."  
"I don't think that's true." Mrs. Robinson comes unbidden, and very unwelcome, into my mind.  
"It is, Niall. I am a very, very private person." He hands me a glass of white wine.  
"Cheers," he says.  
"Cheers," I respond taking a sip as he puts the bottle in the fridge.  
"Can I help you with that?" he asks.  
"No it's fine . . . sit."  
"I'd like to help." His expression is sincere.  
"You can chop the vegetables."  
"I don't cook," he says, regarding the knife I hand him with suspicion.  
"I imagine you don't need to." I place a chopping board and some red peppers in front of him. He stares down at them in confusion.  
"You've never chopped a vegetable?"  
"No."  
I smirk at him.  
"Are you smirking at me?"  
"It appears this is something that I can do and you can't. Let's face it, Zayn, I think this is a first. Here, I'll show you."  
I brush up against him and he steps back. My inner god sits up and takes notice.  
"Like this." I slice the red pepper, careful to remove the seeds.  
"Looks simple enough."  
"You shouldn't have any trouble with it," I mutter ironically.  
He gazes at me impassively for a moment then sets about his task as I continue to prepare the diced chicken. He starts to slice, carefully, slowly. Oh my, we'll be here all day.  
I wash my hands and hunt for the wok, the oil, and the other ingredients I need, repeatedly brushing against him—my hip, my arm, my back, my hands. Small, seemingly innocent touches. He stills each time I do.  
"I know what you're doing, Blondie," he murmurs darkly, still preparing the first pepper.  
"I think it's called cooking," I say, fluttering my eyelashes. Grabbing another knife, I join him at the chopping board peeling and slicing garlic, shallots, and French beans, continually bumping against him.  
"You're quite good at this," he mutters as he starts on his second red pepper.  
"Chopping?" I bat my eyelashes at him. "Years of practice." I brush against him again, this time with my behind. He stills once more.  
"If you do that again, Niall, I am going to take you on the kitchen floor." Oh, wow. It's working. "You'll have to beg me first."  
"Is that a challenge?"  
"Maybe."  
He puts down his knife and saunters slowly over to me, his eyes burning. Leaning past me, he switches the gas off. The oil in the wok quiets almost immediately.  
"I think we'll eat later," he says.   
"Put the chicken in the fridge." This is not a sentence I had ever expected to hear from Zayn Malik, and only he can make it sound hot, really hot. I pick up the bowl of diced chicken, rather shakily place a plate on top of it, and stow it in the fridge. When I turn back, he's beside me.  
"So you're going to beg?" I whisper, bravely gazing into his darkening eyes.  
"No, Niall." He shakes his head. "No begging." His voice is soft, seductive.  
And we stand staring at each other, drinking each other in—the atmosphere charging between us, almost crackling, neither saying anything, just looking. I bite my lip as desire for this beautiful man seizes me with a vengeance, igniting my blood, shallowing my breath, pooling below my waist. I see my reactions reflected in his stance, in his eyes.  
In a beat, he grabs me by my hips and pulls me to him as my hands reach for his hair and his mouth claims me. He pushes me against the fridge, and I hear the vague protesting rattle of bottles and jars from within as his tongue finds mine. I moan into his mouth, and one of his hands moves into my hair, pulling my head back as we kiss, savagely.  
"What do you want, Niall?" he breathes.  
"You." I gasp.  
"Where?"  
"Bed."  
He breaks free, scoops me into his arms, and carries me quickly and seemingly without any strain into my bedroom. Setting me on my feet beside my bed, he leans down and switches on my bedside lamp. He glances quickly round the room and hastily closes the pale cream curtains.  
"Now what?" he says softly.  
"Make love to me."  
"How?"  
Jeez.  
"You have got to tell me, baby."  
Holy crap.  
"Undress me." I am panting already.  
He smiles and hooks his index finger into my open shirt, pulling me toward him.  
"Good boy," he murmurs, and without taking his blazing eyes off mine, slowly starts to unbutton my shirt.  
Tentatively I put my hands on his arms to steady myself. He doesn't complain. His arms are a safe area. When he's finished with the buttons, he pulls my shirt over my shoulders, and I let go of him to let the shirt fall to the floor. He reaches down to the waistband of my jeans, pops the button, and pulls down the zipper.  
"Tell me what you want, Niall." His eyes smolder and his lips part as he takes quick shallow breaths.  
"Kiss me from here to here," I whisper trailing my finger from the base of my ear, down my throat. He bends, leaving sweet soft kisses along the path my finger took and then back again.  
"My jeans and boxers," I murmur, and he smiles against my throat before he drops to his knees in front of me. Oh, I feel so powerful. Hooking his thumbs into my jeans, he gently pulls them and my boxers down my legs. I step out of my shoes and my clothes so that I'm left with nothing. He stops and looks up at me expectantly, but he doesn't get up.  
"What now, Niall?"  
"Kiss me," I whisper.  
"Where?"  
"You know where."  
"Where?"  
Oh, he's taking no prisoners. Embarrassed I quickly point at the apex of my thighs, and he grins wickedly. I close my eyes, mortified, but at the same time beyond aroused.  
"Oh, with pleasure," he chuckles.   
He kisses me and unleashes his tongue, his joy-inspiring expert tongue. I groan and fist my hands into his hair. He doesn't stop, his tongue now circling the tip of my erection, driving me insane, on and on, round and round. Ahhh . . . it's only been . . . how long . . . ? Oh . . .  
"Zayn, please," I beg. I don't want to come standing up. I don't have the strength.  
"Please what, Niall?"  
"Make love to me."  
"I am," he murmurs, gently blowing against me.  
"No. I want you inside me."  
"Are you sure?"  
"Please."  
He doesn't stop his sweet, exquisite torture. I moan loudly.  
"Zayn . . . please."  
He stands and gazes down at me, and his lips glisten with the evidence of my arousal.  
Holy cow . . .  
"Well?" he asks.  
"Well what?" I pant, staring up at him in frantic need.  
"I'm still dressed."  
I gape at him in confusion.  
Undress him? Yes, I can do this. I reach for his shirt and he steps back.  
"Oh no," he admonishes. Shit, he means his jeans.  
Oh, and this gives me an idea. My inner god cheers loudly to the rafters, and I drop to my knees in front of him. Rather clumsily and with shaking fingers, I undo his waistband and fly, then yank down his jeans and boxers, and he springs free. Wow.  
I peek up at him through my lashes, and he's gazing at me with . . . what? Trepidation? Awe? Surprise?  
He steps out of his jeans and pulls off his socks, and I take hold of him in my hand and squeeze tightly, pushing my hand back like he's shown me before. He groans and tenses, and his breath hisses through clenched teeth. Very tentatively, I put him in my mouth and suck—hard. Mmm, he tastes good.  
"Ahh. Niall . . . whoa, gently."  
He cups my head tenderly, and I push him deeper into my mouth, pressing my lips together as tightly as I can, sheathing my teeth, and sucking hard.  
"Fuck," he hisses.  
Oh, that's a good, inspiring, sexy sound, so I do it again, pulling his length deeper, swirling my tongue around the end. Hmm . . . I feel like a Greek god.  
"Niall, that's enough. No more."  
I do it again— Beg, Malik, beg— and again.  
"Ni, you've made your point," he grunts through gritted teeth. "I do not want to come in your mouth."  
I do it once more, and he bends down, grasps me by my shoulders, hauls me to my feet, and tosses me on the bed. Dragging his shirt over his head, he then reaches down to his discarded jeans, and like a good boy scout, produces a foil packet and a lube. He's panting, like me.  
"Lie down. I want to look at you."  
I lie down, gazing up at him as he slowly rolls the condom on and putting lube in his length. I want him so badly. He stares down at me and licks his lips.  
"You are a fine sight, Niall Horan." He bends over the bed and slowly crawls up and over me, kissing me as he goes. He kisses and teases my nipples in turn, while I groan and writhe beneath him, and he doesn't stop.  
No . . . Stop. I want you.  
"Zayn, please."  
"Please what?" he murmurs.  
"I want you inside me."  
"Do you now?"  
"Please."  
Gazing at me, he pushes my legs apart with his and moves so that he's hovering above me. Without taking his eyes off mine, he sinks into me at a deliciously slow pace.  
I close my eyes, relishing the fullness, the exquisite feeling of his possession, instinctively tilting my pelvis up to meet him, to join with him, groaning loudly. He eases back and very slowly fills me again. My fingers find their way into his silken unruly hair, and he oh-so-slowly moves in and out again.  
"Faster, Zayn, faster . . . please."  
He gazes down at me in triumph and kisses me hard, then really starts to move along with his hand on my aching hard on— holy cow, a punishing, relentless . . . oh fuck—and I know it will not be long. He sets a pounding rhythm. I start to quicken, my legs tensing beneath him.  
"Come on, baby," he gasps. "Give it to me."  
His words are my undoing, and I explode, magnificently, mind-numbingly, into a million pieces around him, and he follows calling out my name.  
"Niall! Oh fuck, Niall!" He collapses on top of me, his head buried in my neck.


	5. CHAPTER 4

ZAYN’S P.O.V

Once we both descend from the heights of ecstasy, Niall opens up his eyes, and gazes into my face in some unfathomable expression. Love? My returning expression is soft and tender. I stroke my nose up against his, making sure to hold my weight on my elbows while holding his hands by the side of his head. This way I’m in control, and though I desire him so much to touch me, I still can’t bear the thought of it. I give him a soft and gentle kiss on his lips, and slowly ease out of him.  
This is where I want to be all the time, and this is part of what I’ve missed this whole week. His love, the connection, the desire, unity, and oneness of it.  
“I’ve missed this,” I say in a breathy whisper.  
“Me too,” he whispers back in a confession. I can’t imagine someone being in him, holding him, giving him what I want to give, fucking him, kissing him... The thought of it just drives me crazy. I take a hold of his chin and kiss him deep and hard; a passionate and a beseeching kiss. Asking him to be mine and mine alone with my kiss. Asking him to not to leave me again. He reciprocates, and is breathless after our kiss.  
“Don’t leave me again,” I implore, begging him with my eyes, my face serious.  
“Okay,” he whispers and smiles at me. I search his face, and seeing that he too is serious, I smile back at him with relief and elation, and youthful delight.  
“Thank you for the iPad,” he says.  
“You’re most welcome, Niall,” I respond.  
“What’s your favorite song in there?” he asks.  
“Now that would be telling,” I say grinning. I think quite a few of them are my favorites as they represent different memories of Niall and I. It’d be hard to pinpoint one.   
“Come cook me some food, wench. I’m famished,” I say giddy, sitting up suddenly and dragging Niall with me.  
“Wench?” he asks giggly.  
“Wench. Food, now, please.” I say like a man from the Middle Ages.  
“Since you ask so nicely, sire, I’ll get right on to it.”  
He scrambles out of the bed, and along the way his pillow is dislodged which reveals a deflated Zero John helicopter balloon underneath. I reach for it, holding it in my hand and gaze up to Niall, puzzled with the discovery. This is the balloon I sent over along with the Bollinger when he and his roommate Louis first moved in here. He’s kept the balloon all this time?  
“That’s my balloon,” he says in a proprietary tone, and reaches for his robe and wraps it around himself.  
“In your bed?” I murmur questioning.  
“Yes,” he flushes as he answers me. “It’s been keeping me company,” he replies.  
“Lucky Zero John,” I say, in surprise.  
“My balloon,” he says and turns on his heel, heading out to the kitchen.  
His simple declaration makes me realize that he truly loves me, and he has missed me all this time. Niall Horan loves me so much that he had to have a simple balloon I’ve sent representing something between us had kept it in his bed. Close to himself, close to his body, close to his mind. He loves me! The realization elates me and I’m grinning ear to ear.

******  
When the food is finally ready, Niall and I sit on the Persian rug on the floor and eat stir-fry chicken and noodles from his white china bowls with chopsticks and sip child white Pinot Grigio. I lean against the couch and stretch my legs in front of me. I’m wearing my jeans commando, and t-shirt. My iPod is on and Buena Vista Social Club is crooning softly on the background.  
“This is good,” I say finally appreciatively about my food, as Niall made it for us...for me. He grins as he sits cross legged beside me, also finally eating heartily, beyond hungry, but not just for food, and I notice him admiring my bare feet.  
“I usually do all the cooking. Lou isn’t a great cook,” he comments.  
“Did your mother teach you?” I ask him.  
“Not really,” he scoffs.   
“By the time I was interested in learning, my mum was living in Glasgow with Husband Number Three. And Bobby, well, he would have lived on toast and takeout if it wasn’t for me,” he says. That comment surprises me. I would have thought he had stayed with his mother.   
I gaze down at him and ask, “You didn’t stay with your mum?”  
“No. Husband number three and I, we didn’t get along. And I missed Bobby. Her marriage to husband number three didn’t last long. She came to her senses, I think. She never talks about him,” he adds quietly. I wonder what went wrong, what the step-father did to Niall to make him dislike him so much.  
“So you came back to Mullingar to live with your stepfather,” I observe.  
“Yes,” he confirms.  
“Sounds like you looked after him,” I say softly. He’s a caregiver, and a considerate son.  
“I suppose,” he says shrugging.  
“You’re used to taking care of people,” I conclude. He glances up at me noticing the hidden thought in my voice.  
“What is it?” he asks startled by my wary expression.  
I gaze at him. He’s taken care of others all his young life. He hasn’t known what it means to be taken care of. I realize that this is why he’s apprehensive when I try to take care of him. It’s not something he’s used to.  
“I want to take care of you,” I declare with all my passion though I try to hide them.  
His breathing increases, his lips part as he gaze searching my face.   
“I’ve noticed,” he whispers. “You just go about it in a strange way,” he adds with a small smile on his face.  
My brow creases with his assessment. “It’s the only way I know how,” I say quietly.   
And it wouldn’t change a thing. We both have our issues. He’s not used to being taken care of, but then again, that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t take care of him no matter how strange he finds my ways. My end goal is to make him safe and well cared for. I can’t get rid of the urge, the desire in me.  
“I’m still mad at you for buying LIP,” he comments.  
I smile. “I know, but you being mad, baby, wouldn’t stop me.” I’d find a way to get around it. If you know me well enough, you’d know that I’d do everything in my power to keep you safe.  
“What am I going to say to my work colleagues, to Jack?”  
His name boils my blood knowing what I know about him. I narrow my eyes on him. “That fucker better watch himself,” I say through my gritted teeth.  
“Zayn!” he admonishes me. “He’s my boss.”  
Not if I could help it! But I say nothing. My mouth presses into a hard line.  
“Don’t tell them,” I say.  
“Don’t tell them what?” he asks.  
“That I own it. The heads of agreement was signed yesterday. The news is embargoed for four weeks while the management at LIP makes some changes.”  
“Oh...” he responds. “Will I be out of a job?” he asks alarmed. Not when I run the company.  
“I sincerely doubt it,” I say wryly, trying to stifle a smile. The company is mine to do as I please. No one is going to dare to fire my boyfriend if he or she wants to keep his or her job. He scowls.  
“If I leave and find another job, will you buy that company, too?” he asks. What? Is he already contemplating to leave because I bought the LIP?  
“You’re not thinking of leaving, are you?” I ask as my expression alters, wary again.  
“Possibly. I’m not sure you’ve given me a great deal of choice,” is his response.  
Fine then. Play it that way!  
“Yes, I will buy that company, too,” I say adamantly. What is it so hard for him to understand? I will go any extent to keep him safe and secure. He’s my lad! My man! My boyfriend! All around mine, body and soul, as I am his... He scowls at me.  
“Don’t you think you’re being a tad overprotective?”  
“Yes. I’m fully aware of how this looks,” I say.  
“Paging Dr. Flynn,” he murmurs.  
You don’t want to play that game with me Blondie. You’ll lose. I put down my empty bowl and gaze at him impassively. He sighs, giving up. He stands up, and reaches for my bowl.

“Would you like dessert?” he asks.  
“Now you’re talking!” I say, giving my man a lascivious grin.  
“Not me,” he reprimands. “We have ice cream. Vanilla,” he says realizing its double meaning and snickers.  
“Really?” I say as my grin gets bigger. “I think we could do something with that,” I say as I get up to my feet.  
“Can I stay?” I ask Niall.  
“What do you mean?” he asks.  
“The night.”  
“I assumed that you were,” he says flushing. The knowledge of that makes me happy.  
“Good. Where’s the ice cream?” I ask.  
“In the oven,” he says smiling at me sweetly.   
Sarcasm from you Blondie? I cock my head to one side, and sigh shaking my head at him.   
“Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, Mr. Horan,” I say with glittering eyes.  
“I could take you across my knee,” I say mischievously. He puts the bowls in the sink and turns to me.  
“Do you have those silver ball things?” My eyes glint. I pat my hands down my chest, belly and pockets of my jeans.   
“Funny enough, I don’t carry a spare set around with me. Not much call for them in the office,” I respond.  
“I’m very glad to hear it, Mr. Malik, and I thought you said that sarcasm was the lowest form of wit,” he replies.  
“Well, Niall, my new motto is if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.”  
He gapes at my response, and I grin back at his reaction. I turn back, and open the freezer and take out the carton of Ben & Jerry’s finest vanilla ice-cream.  
“This will do just fine,” I say looking up at my beautiful boyfriend with dark eyes.   
“Ben & Jerry’s & Nialler,” I say each word slowly, enunciating every syllable clearly giving my intent to him in plain terms.  
The lascivious expression on my face makes Niall gape at me. I open his cutlery drawer and grab a spoon. When I look up, my eyes are hooded, heavy with desire for him; and my tongue skims my top teeth. Niall looks wanton, excited and desirous.  
“I hope you’re warm,” I whisper. “I’m going to cool you down with this. Come,” I say holding out my hand for him and he places his into mine.  
When we get into his bedroom, I place the ice-cream on top of the side table, pull off the duvet, and remove both the pillows in a pile on the floor.  
“You have a change of sheets, don’t you?” I ask as these ones will be sticky when I’m done with him. He nods with fascination. I hold up Zero John balloon.  
“Don’t mess with my balloon,” he warns me. His reaction makes my lips quirk up in a smile.  
“I wouldn’t dream of it baby, but I do want to mess with you and these sheets,” I say and he nearly convulses with this declaration.  
“I want to tie you up,” I say.  
“Okay,” he whispers with anticipation.  
“Just your hands. To the bed. I need you still.”  
“Okay,” He whispers again, unable to say anything else. My entire body is fixed on Niall and I have nothing but immense desire for him. I stroll over to him without taking my eyes off his.  
“We’ll use this,” I say showing him the sash of his robe and with torturous, teasing slowness, I release the bow, and gently pull it free of the robe. As his robe falls open, Niall remains frozen under my sweltering gaze. Without taking my eyes off him, I push his robe off his shoulders. The garment falls and pools at his feet and he stands before me gloriously naked. My breath hitches at his beauty. My hand reaches up and I stroke his face with the backs of my knuckles to which he responds by closing his eyes lost in desire. I bend down and kiss his lips briefly.  
“Lie on the bed, face up,” I murmur as my eyes darken with desire burning into his.  
He does exactly what he’s told; lying on the bed facing up in the relative darkness. The only light in the room is from the side table shines weakly. I stand by the bed gazing down at this beauty that is my boyfriend unable to break connection.  
“I could look at you all day Niall,” I say truthfully as I crawl on the bed, up on his body, and I straddle my man.  
“Arms above your head,” I order.  
He immediately complies and I fasten end of his robe sash around his left wrist and thread the end through the metal bar of his head board. I pull it tight so his left arm is flexed above him. I then tie up his right arm in the same manner tightly.  
When he’s completely tied up, he stares at me, and I am now completely relaxed knowing he won’t be able to touch me. This way I’m in control. He looks at me with some unknown emotion, some certain realization. I smile.  
I finally climb off him and bend down give him a quick kiss on his lips. I then stand and pull my shirt off of my head, and undo my jeans and drop them both on the floor.   
I too am naked before him, and he is assessing what is before him, liking what he’s seeing. I move to the end of the bed, and grasp his ankles, and sharply pull him downward so his arms are stretched out and he’s unable to move, completely at my beckoning.  
“That’s better,” I mutter.  
I finally pick up the Ben & Jerry’s vanilla ice cream, smoothly climb back on top of the bed, and straddle my man once more who is naked beneath me just like I am. There’s nothing between us. I very slowly peel the lid off the ice-cream, and dip the spoon in.  
“Hmm... it’s still quite hard,” I say raising my eyebrows. I scoop a spoonful of vanilla, and put it into my mouth.  
“Delicious,” I murmur, licking my lips. “Amazing how good plain old vanilla can taste,” I say gazing down at him smirking. “Want some?” I tease my man.  
He nods shyly at my question. I scoop another spoonful and offer him the spoon, and he opens his mouth, but I quickly put the spoon into my own mouth again, teasing him.  
“This is too good to share,” I say smiling wickedly.  
“Hey,” he protests.  
“Why, Blondie, do you like your vanilla?” I ask with double meaning.  
“Yes,” he says forcefully and tries to buck me off. I laugh at his fiery reaction. “Getting feisty, are we? I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” I say.  
“Ice cream,” he pleads.  
“Well, as you’ve pleased me so much today, Mr. Horan,” I say and yield to him offering him another spoonful and let his lips close around the spoon. I scoop another spoonful and feed him once again.  
“Hmm, well, this is one way to ensure you eat,” I say, adding, “Force-feed you. I could get used to this.”  
I take another spoonful and offer it to him, but this time he keeps his lips closed and shakes his head. I let the ice cream melt in the spoon, and the melted ice-cream slowly drips onto his throat, onto his chest. I dip down and very slowly lick it off. He lights up with desire.  
“Mmm. Tastes even better off you, Blondie,” I comment.  
Niall pulls against his restraints, and his small bed creaks under our weight. His eyes are full of burning desire. I take another spoonful and let the ice-cream melt again letting it dribble onto his chest. With the back of the spoon, I spread the dribbles over his chest and his nipples.  
His nipples perk up and harden under the cold of the ice-cream.  
“Cold?” I ask softly bending down and licking and suckling the ice-cream off his nipples and chest.   
He’s cold under the ice-cream, and hot under my lips giving him an amazing sensation. It’s torturous and sensual all at the same time. I slowly continue my ministrations, and delicious torture of my lips, sucking hard, nuzzling, softly as the rivulets of melted ice-cream runs off his body onto the bed as I continue my licking and sucking while he’s writhing under me and panting hard.  
“Want some?” I say, and before he can answer me, my tongue darts into his mouth, finding his, and start its delicious assaults in his mouth making him moan with desire.  
Just as he’s panting for more, I sit up, and trail a spoonful of ice-cream down the center of his body, all across his belly, and into his navel where I deposit a large dollop of ice-cream.  
“Now, you’ve done this before,” I say as my eyes burn into him.   
“You’re going to have to stay still, or there will be ice-cream all over the bed.” His breath hitches with excitement and expectation, and I lean down and kiss and suck both his nipples quite hard, then follow the line of ice cream down his body, sucking and licking in delicious torture as I go.  
He does his best to remain still, but, my touch, and ministrations of my tongue combined with the cold of ice-cream make him move, and he start gyrating, caught in the spell. I shift lower and start eating the ice-cream off his belly and swirl my tongue in and around his navel driving him crazy. He moans loud, but I continue my tantalizing moves. I trail the ice-cream down into his pubic hair, and onto his erection. He cries out loudly with passion and desire, and arousal.  
“Oh...God! Please... Zayn.”  
“I know, baby, I know,” I breathe as I work my tongue on his sex.  
I don’t stop, and continue tantalizing him, working my magic, and he climbs higher, and higher. I then slip one finger inside him, and then another and start moving agonizingly slow in and out.  
“Just here,” I murmur and rhythmically stroke the front wall of his hole as I continue my relentless licking and sucking on his hard on finally making Niall erupt into a mind-blowing orgasm making him writhe and groan. At that point I stop my ministrations. I hover over Niall and rip a packet of condom, pinching the tip roll it onto my length, and then I slide inside my man hard and fast.  
“Oh, yes!” I groan as I slam into him. The residual ice-cream is sticky between us, but it creates a different, distracting sensation. After a few strokes, I pull out of Niall, and flip him over.  
“This way,” I murmur and quickly slide inside him again, but this time, I don’t start my punishing rhythm right away. I lean over and release his hands, and pull Niall upright so he’s practically sitting on me. My hands move up to his chest. I start tugging on his nipples. He groans with pleasure, and tosses his head back against my shoulder. I nuzzle his neck, biting down, I flex my hips, and painfully slowly, I enter into him again, filling him to the brim.  
“Do you know how much you mean to me?” I breathe into his ear.  
“No,” he says with his breathy gasp.  
I smile at his neck, and my fingers curl around his jaw and his throat holding onto him fast for a moment. He knows how much he means to me. I’ve shown it to him over and over again. I harrowed hell for him, I’d move heaven and earth for him.  
“Yes, you do. I’m not going to let you go,” I say fervently.  
He groans knowing my meaning, and I pick up my speed as I slam into him, claiming him once again. It’s not just fucking. It’s not just laying claim on him. It’s my declaration that he’s mine, and I am his. It’s as if we always belonged to each other, and with that realization I know that we always will.   
“You are mine, Niall!” I declare.  
“Yes, yours,” he says panting.  
“I take care of what’s mine,” I hiss through my teeth and bit his ear possessively.  
He cries out.  
“That’s right, baby, I want to hear you,” I say.  
I snake my hand around his waist while grasping his hip with the other hand, I push into him harder and faster as if there’s no tomorrow making him cry out in a punishing rhythm. My breathing grows harsher, ragged as does his.  
At this moment, both of us are full of sensation, intoxicated with each other’s presence, with our love making; it’s completely magical. He’s completely mine, and I’m completely his.  
“Come on, baby,” I growl through my gritted teeth, I move my hand to his erection and pump it hard and then we both find our release together at my beckoning.  
We’re both curled up against each other, and he’s in my arms on his sticky sheets. My front is pressed to his back, and as usual, my nose is in his hair, inhaling his manly scent deeply.  
“What I feel for you frightens me,” he whispers making me completely still.  
This is exactly how I feel for him. In his presence, I lose reason. I care for nothing else, not even my own life. He’s all I think about, all I care. Without him, life is a perpetual night, no light in sight. No hope. With him, I feel I can conquer the world. He’s my biggest strength as well as my greatest weakness.  
“Me too, baby,” I say quietly acknowledging my own fears.  
“What if you leave me?” he asks in a small voice horrified.  
“I’m not going anywhere. I don’t think I could ever have my fill of you, Niall.” It’s not just that. His presence relaxes me, centers me; as if I had been a lost planet, finally finding my sun.  
He turns to gaze at me. I have a serious but sincere expression on. I smile, and I reach up and brush a strand of his hair in his forehead.  
“I’ve never felt the way I felt when you left, Niall. I would move heaven and earth to avoid feeling like that again,” I confess sad and dazed remembering how my life shattered under my feet, and how everything looked bleak and life felt unbearable.  
He kisses me again. With the elation he’s in my arms, and the strength his kiss gives me I ask, “Will you come with me to my father’s summer party tomorrow? It’s an annual charity thing. I said I’d go.”  
He smiles but suddenly looks very shy.  
“Of course I’ll come,” he says, but his face falls with some unsaid concern.  
“What?” I probe.  
“Nothing,” he answers. I won’t have it. He is my man. If he has a problem, an issue, I am more than capable of fixing it.  
“Tell me,” I insist. Otherwise my mind will run free and I don’t like what I am capable of thinking of.  
“I have nothing to wear,” he answers. Oh good. This can be resolved easily. But, remembering how I have not returned and kept all his clothes, and knowing that he hates me buying and giving him things, I feel uncomfortable.  
“Don’t be mad, but I still have all those clothes for you at home. I’m sure there are a couple of suits in there,” I say.  
He purses his lips. “Do you, now?” he mutters in a sardonic voice. But he gives in, and gets up.  
He isn’t running, is he?  
“Where are you going?” I ask.  
“To take a shower,” he replies sweetly.  
“Oh…in that case, can I join you?” He smiles.  
“I thought you were.”  
*****  
When we come out of the shower, I help Niall take the sticky sheets off the bed, and help him put on clean sheets. We crawl under the clean, spring breeze smelling sheets. Niall lays his back to me, and I pull him into my embrace spooning him. His arms reach behind him pulling my head down. He twists his head, exposing his neck. I nuzzle into his neck and I find his lips seeking mine. I return his kiss, but suddenly our kiss deepens, sweetens and goes on and on. We’re both breathless by the time I manage to break the kiss.   
“God, Ni! What are you doing to me?” I ask.  
“I could say the same thing to you,” he replies.  
“You’ve had a long day. Go to sleep baby,” I say. I hum a soft tune for him to fall asleep. Pretty soon, we both drift into sleep.


	6. CHAPTER 5

NIALL’S P.O.V

The girl who looks like me is standing outside LIP. Hang on—she is me. I am pale and un-washed, and all my clothes are too big; I'm staring at her, and she's wearing my clothes— happy, healthy.  
"What do you have that I don't?" I ask her.  
"Who are you?"  
"I'm nobody . . . Who are you? Are you nobody, too . . . ?"  
"Then there's a pair of us—don't tell, they'd banish us, you know . . ." She smiles, a slow, evil grimace that spreads across her face, and it's so chilling that I start to scream.  
"Jesus, Niall!" Zayn is shaking me awake.  
I am so disorientated. I'm at home . . . in the dark . . . in bed with Zayn. I shake my head, trying to clear my mind.  
"Baby, are you okay? You were having a bad dream."  
"Oh."  
He switches on the lamp so we're bathed in its dim light. He gazes down at me, his face etched with concern.  
"The girl," I whisper.  
"What is it? What girl?" he asks soothingly.  
"There was a girl outside LIP when I left this evening. She looked like me . . . but not really."  
Zayn stills, and as the light from the bedside lamp warms up, I see his face is ashen.  
"When was this?" he whispers, dismayed. He sits up, staring down at me.  
"When I left this afternoon. Do you know who she is?"  
"Yes." He runs a hand through his hair.  
"Who?"  
His mouth presses into a hard line, but he says nothing.  
"Who?" I press.  
"It's Perrie."  
I swallow. The ex-sub! I remember Zayn talking about her before we went gliding.  
Suddenly, he's radiating tension. Something is going on.  
"The girl who put ‘Toxic' on your iPod?"  
He glances at me anxiously.  
"Yes," he says. "Did she say anything?"  
"She said, ‘what do you have that I don't have?' and when I asked who she was, she said, ‘nobody.' "  
Zayn closes his eyes as if in pain. Oh no. What's happened? What does she mean to him?  
My scalp prickles as adrenaline spikes through my body. What if she means a lot to him? Perhaps he misses her? I know so little about his past . . . um, relationships. She must have had a contract, and she would have done what he wanted, given him what he needed gladly.  
Emily Dickinson, "I'm Nobody! Who are you?" first stanza.  
Oh no—when I can't. The thought makes me nauseous.  
Climbing out of bed, Zayn drags on his jeans and heads into the main room. A glance at my alarm clock shows it's five in the morning. I roll out of bed, putting his white shirt on, and follow him.  
Holy shit, he's on the phone.  
"Yes, outside LIP, yesterday . . . early evening," he says quietly. He turns to me as I move toward the kitchen and asks me directly, "What time exactly?"  
"About ten to six?" I mumble. Who on earth is he calling at this hour? What's Perrie done? He relays the information to whoever's on the line, not taking his eyes off me, his expression dark and earnest.  
"Find out how . . . Yes . . . I wouldn't have said so, but then I wouldn't have thought she could do this." He closes his eyes as if he's in pain. "I don't know how that will go down . . . Yes, I'll talk to her . . . Yes . . . I know . . . Follow it up and let me know. Just find her, Welch—she's in trouble. Find her." He hangs up.  
"Do you want some tea?" I ask. Tea, Bobby's answer to every crisis and the only thing he does well in the kitchen. I fill the kettle with water.  
"Actually, I'd like to go back to bed." His look tells me that it's not to sleep.  
"Well, I need some tea. Would you like to join me for a cup?" I want to know what's going on. I will not be sidetracked by sex.  
He runs his hand through his hair in exasperation. "Yes, please," he says, but I can tell he's irritated.  
I put the kettle on the stove and busy myself with teacups and the teapot. My anxiety level has shot to defcon one. Is he going to tell me the problem? Or am I going to have to dig? I sense his eyes on me—sense his uncertainty, and his anger is palpable. I glance up, and his eyes glitter with apprehension.  
"What is it?" I ask softly.  
He shakes his head.  
"You're not going to tell me?"  
He sighs and closes his eyes. "No."  
"Why?"  
"Because it shouldn't concern you. I don't want you tangled up in this."  
"It shouldn't concern me, but it does. She found me and accosted me outside my office. How does she know about me? How does she know where I work? I think I have a right to know what's going on."  
He runs a hand through his hair again, radiating frustration as if waging some internal battle.  
"Please?" I ask softly.  
His mouth sets into a hard line, and he rolls his eyes at me.  
"Okay," he says, resigned. "I have no idea how she found you. Maybe the photograph of us in Doncaster, I don't know." He sighs again, and I sense his frustration is directed at himself.  
I wait patiently, pouring boiling water into the teapot as he paces back and forth. After a beat he continues.  
"While I was with you in Ireland, Perrie turned up at my apartment unannounced and made a scene in front of Gail."  
"Gail?"  
"Mrs. Jones."  
"What do you mean, ‘made a scene'?"  
He glares at me, appraising.  
"Tell me. You're keeping something back." My tone is more forceful than I feel.  
He blinks at me, surprised. "Ni, I—" he stops.  
"Please?"  
He sighs in defeat. "She made a haphazard attempt to open a vein."  
"Oh no!" That explains the bandage on her wrist.  
"Gail got her to hospital. But Perrie discharged herself before I could get there." Crap. What does this mean? Suicidal? Why?  
"The shrink who saw her called it a typical cry for help. He didn't believe her to be truly at risk—one step from suicidal ideation, he called it. But I'm not convinced. I've been trying to track her down since then to get her some help."  
"Did she say anything to Mrs. Jones?"  
He gazes at me. He looks really uncomfortable.  
"Not much," he says eventually, but I know he's not telling me everything.  
I distract myself with pouring tea into teacups. So Perrie wants back into Zayn's life and chooses a suicide attempt to attract his attention? Whoa . . . scary. But effective.  
Zayn left Ireland to be at her side, but she disappears before he gets there? How odd.  
"You can't find her? What about her family?"  
"They don't know where she is. Neither does her husband."  
"Husband?"  
"Yes," he says distractedly, "she's been married for about two years."   
What?   
"So she was with you while she was married?" Holy fuck. He really has no boundaries.  
"No! Good God, no. She was with me nearly three years ago. Then she left and married this guy shortly afterward."  
Oh. "So why is she trying to get your attention now?" He shakes his head sadly.   
"I don't know. All we've managed to find out is that she ran out on her husband about four months ago."  
"Let me get this straight. She hasn't been your submissive for three years?"  
"About two and a half years."  
"And she wanted more."  
"Yes."  
"But you didn't?"  
"You know this."  
"So she left you."  
"Yes."  
"So why is she coming to you now?"  
"I don't know." And the tone of this voice tells me that he at least has a theory.  
"But you suspect . . ."  
His eyes narrow perceptibly with anger. "I suspect it has something to do with you."   
Me? What would she want with me? What do you have that I don't?   
I stare at Fifty, magnificently naked from the waist up. I have him; he's mine. That's what I have, and yet she looked like me: same blonde hair and pale skin. I frown at the thought. Yes . . . what do I have that she doesn't?  
"Why didn't you tell me yesterday?" he asks softly.  
"I forgot about her." I shrug apologetically. "You know, drinks after work, at the end of my first week. You turning up at the bar and your . . . testosterone rush with Jack, and then when we were here. It slipped my mind. You have a habit of making me forget things."  
"Testosterone rush?" His lips twitch.  
"Yes. The pissing contest."  
"I'll show you a testosterone rush."  
"Wouldn't you rather have a cup of tea?"  
"No, Niall, I wouldn't."  
His eyes burn into me, scorching me with his I-want-you-and-I-want-you-now look.  
Fuck . . . it's so hot.  
"Forget about her. Come." He holds out his hand.  
My inner god does three back flips over the gym floor as I grasp his hand.

*****

I wake, too warm, and I'm wrapped around a naked Zayn Malik. Even though he's fast asleep, he's holding me close. Soft morning light filters through the curtains. My head is on his chest, my leg tangled with his, my arm across his stomach.  
I raise my head slightly, scared that I might wake him. He looks so young, so relaxed in sleep, so utterly beautiful. I can't quite believe this Adonis is mine, all mine.  
Hmm . . . Reaching up, I tentatively stroke his chest, running my fingertips through the smattering of hair, and he doesn't stir. Holy cow. I can't quite believe it. He's really mine—for a few more precious moments. I lean over and tenderly kiss one of his scars. He moans softly but doesn't wake, and I smile. I kiss another and his eyes open.  
"Hi." I grin at him, guiltily.  
"Hi," he answers warily. "What are you doing?"  
"Looking at you." I run my fingers down his happy trail. He captures my hand, narrows his eyes, then smiles a brilliant Zayn-at-ease smile, and I relax. My secret touching stays secret.  
Oh . . . why won't you let me touch you?  
Suddenly he moves on top of me, pressing me into the mattress, his hands on mine, warning me. He strokes my nose with his.  
"I think you're up to no good, Blondie," he accuses but his smile remains.  
"I like being up to no good near you."  
"You do?" he asks and kisses me lightly on the lips. "Sex or breakfast?" he asks, his eyes dark but full of humor. His erection is digging into me, and I tilt my pelvis up to meet him."Good choice," he murmurs against my throat, as he trails kisses down to my chest.  
I stand at my chest of drawers, staring at my mirror, trying to coax my hair into some semblance of style—really, it's just too long and messy. I'm in jeans and a T-shirt, and Zayn, freshly showered, is dressing behind me. I gaze at his body hungrily.  
"How often do you work out?" I ask.  
"Every weekday," he says, buttoning his fly.  
"What do you do?"  
"Run, weights, kickbox." He shrugs.  
"Kickbox?"  
"Yes, I have a personal trainer, an ex-Olympic contender who teaches me. His name is Claude. He's very good. You'd like him."  
I turn to gaze at him as he starts to button up his white shirt.  
"What do you mean I'd like him?"  
"You'd like him as a trainer."  
"Why would I need a personal trainer? I have you to keep me fit." I smirk at him.  
He saunters over and wraps his arms around me, his darkening eyes meeting mine in the mirror.  
"But I want you fit, baby, for what I have in mind. I'll need you to keep up." I flush as memories of the playroom flood my mind. Yes . . . the Red Room of Pain is exhausting. Is he going to let me back in there? Do I want to go back in?  
Of course you do! My inner god screams at me from his chaise longue.  
I stare into his unfathomable, mesmerizing brown eyes.  
"You know you want to," he mouths at me.  
I flush, and the undesirable thought that Perrie could probably keep up slithers invidious and unwelcome into my mind. I press my lips together and Zayn frowns at me.  
"What?" he asks, concerned.  
"Nothing." I shake my head at him. "Okay, I'll meet Claude."  
"You will?" Zayn's face lights up in astounded disbelief. His expression makes me smile He looks like he's won the lottery, though Zayn's probably never even bought a ticket—he has no need.  
"Yes, jeez—if it makes you that happy," I scoff.  
He tightens his arms around me and kisses my cheek. "You have no idea," he whispers.  
"So—what would you like to do today?" He nuzzles me, sending delicious tingles through my body.  
"I'd like to get my hair cut, and um . . . I need to bank a check and buy a car."  
"Ah," he says knowingly and bites his lip. Taking one hand off me, he reaches into his jeans pocket and holds up the key to my little Audi.  
"It's here," he says quietly, his expression uncertain.  
"What do you mean, it's here?" Boy. I sound angry. Crap. I am angry. My subconscious glares at him. How dare he!  
"Higgins brought it back yesterday."  
I open my mouth then close it and repeat the process twice, but I have been rendered speechless. He's giving me back the car. Double crap. Why didn't I foresee this? Well, two can play at that game. I fish in the back pocket of my jeans and pull out the envelope with his check.  
"Here, this is yours."  
Zayn looks at me quizzically, then recognizing the envelope, raises both his hands and steps away from me.  
"Oh no. That's your money."  
"No, it isn't. I'd like to buy the car from you."  
His expression changes completely. Fury—yes, fury—sweeps across his face.  
"No, Niall. Your money, your car," he snaps at me.  
"No, Zayn. My money, your car. I'll buy it from you."  
"I gave you that car for your graduation present."  
"If you'd given me a pen—that would be a suitable graduation present. You gave me an Audi."  
"Do you really want to argue about this?"  
"No."  
"Good—here are the keys." He puts them on the chest of drawers.  
"That's not what I meant!"  
"End of discussion, Niall. Don't push me."  
I scowl at him, then inspiration hits me. Taking the envelope, I rip it in two, then two again and drop the contents into my waste bin. Oh, that feels good.  
Zayn gazes at me impassively, but I know I've just lit the blue touch paper and should stand well back. He strokes his chin.  
"You are, as ever, challenging, Mr. Horan," he says dryly. He turns on his heel and stalks into the other room. That is not the reaction I expected. I was anticipating full scale Armageddon. I stare at myself in the mirror and shrug, deciding on a messily done quiff.  
My curiosity is piqued. What is Fifty doing? I follow him into the room, and he's on the phone.  
"Yes, twenty-four thousand pounds. Directly."  
He glances up at me, still impassive.  
"Good . . . Monday? Excellent . . . No that's all, Lily." He snaps the phone shut.  
"Deposited in your bank account, Monday. Don't play games with me." He's boiling mad, but I don't care.  
"Twenty-four thousand pounds!" I'm almost screaming. "And how do you know my account number?"  
My ire takes Zayn by surprise.  
"I know everything about you, Niall," he says quietly.  
"There's no way my car was worth twenty-four thousand pounds."  
"I would agree with you, but it's about knowing your market, whether you're buying or selling. Some lunatic out there wanted that death trap and was willing to pay that amount of money. Apparently, it's a classic. Ask Higgins if you don't believe me." I glower at him and he glowers back, two angry stubborn fools glaring at each other.  
And I feel it, the pull—the electricity between us—tangible, drawing us together. Suddenly he grabs me and pushes me up against the door, his mouth on mine, claiming me hungrily, one hand on my behind pressing our groins together and the other in the nape of my hair, tugging my head back. My fingers are in his hair, twisting hard, holding him to me. He grinds his body into mine, imprisoning me, his breathing ragged. I feel him. He wants me, and I'm heady and reeling with excitement as I acknowledge his need for me.  
"Why, why do you defy me?" he mumbles between his heated kisses.  
My blood sings in my veins. Will he always have this effect on me? And I on him?  
"Because I can." I'm breathless. I feel rather than see his smile against my neck, and he presses his forehead to mine.  
"Lord, I want to take you now, but I'm out of condoms. I can never get enough of you. You're a maddening, maddening lad."  
"And you make me mad," I whisper. "In every way."  
He shakes his head. "Come. Let's go out for breakfast. And I know a place you can get your hair cut."  
"Okay," I acquiesce and just like that, our fight is over.

*****  
"I'll get this." I pick up the tab for breakfast before he does.  
He scowls at me.  
"You have to be quick around here, Malik."  
"You're right, I do," he says sourly, though I think he's teasing.  
"Don't look so cross. I'm twenty-four thousand pounds richer than I was this morning. I can afford"—I glance at the check—"twenty-two pounds and sixty-seven cents for breakfast."  
"Thank you," he says grudgingly. Oh, the sulky schoolboy is back.  
"Where to now?"  
"You really want your hair cut?"  
"Yes, look at it."  
"You look lovely to me. You always do."  
I blush and stare down at my fingers knotted in my lap.   
"And there's your father's function this evening."  
"Remember, it's black tie."  
Oh Jeez. "Where is it?"  
"At my parents' house. They have a marquee. You know, the works."  
"What's the charity?"  
Zayn rubs his hands down his thighs, looking uncomfortable.  
"It's a drug rehab program for parents with young kids called Coping Together."  
"Sounds like a good cause," I say softly.  
"Come, let's go." He stands, effectively halting that topic of conversation and holds out his hand. As I take it, he tightens his fingers around mine.  
It's strange. He's so demonstrative in some ways and yet so closed in others. He leads me out of the restaurant, and we walk down the street. It is a lovely, mild morning. The sun is shining, and the air smells of coffee and freshly baked bread.  
"Where are we going?"  
"Surprise."  
Oh, okay. I don't really like surprises.  
We walk for two blocks, and the stores become decidedly more exclusive. I haven't yet had an opportunity to explore, but this really is just around the corner from where I live. Louis will be pleased. There are plenty of small boutiques to feed his fashion passion.  
Actually, I need to buy some skinny jeans for work.  
Zayn stops outside a large, slick-looking beauty salon and opens the door for me.  
It's called Esclava. The interior is all white and leather. At the stark white reception desk sits a young brunette woman in a crisp white uniform. She glances up as we enter.  
"Good morning, Mr. Malik," she says brightly, color rising in her cheeks as she bats her eyelashes at him. It's the Malik effect, but she knows him! How?  
"Hello Greta."  
And he knows her. What is this?  
"Is this the usual, sir?" she asks politely. She's wearing very pink lipstick.  
"No," he says quickly, with a nervous glance at me.  
The usual? What does that mean?  
Holy fuck! It's Rule no 6, the damned beauty salon. All the waxing nonsense . . . shit!  
This is where he brought all his subs? Maybe Perrie, too? What the hell am I supposed to make of this?  
"Mr. Horan will tell you what he wants."  
I glare at him. He's introducing the Rules by stealth. I've agreed to the personal trainer—and now this?  
"Why here?" I hiss at him.  
"I own this place, and three more like it."  
"You own it?" I gasp in surprise. Well, that's unexpected.  
"Yes. It's a sideline. Anyway—whatever you want, you can have it here, on the house. All sorts of massage; Swedish, shiatsu, hot stones, reflexology, seaweed baths, facials, all that stuff that men and women like—everything. It's done here." He waves his long-fingered hand dismissively.  
"Waxing?"  
He laughs. "Yes waxing, too. Everywhere," he whispers conspiratorially, enjoying my discomfort.  
I blush and glance at Greta, who is looking at me expectantly.  
"I'd like a haircut, please."  
"Certainly, Mr. Horan."  
Greta is all pink lipstick and bustling Germanic efficiency as she checks her computer screen.  
"Franco is free in five minutes."  
"Franco's fine," says Zayn reassuringly to me. I am trying to wrap my head around this. Zayn Malik CEO owns a chain of beauty salons.  
I peek up at him, and suddenly he blanches—something, or someone, has caught his eye. I turn to see where he's looking, and right at the back of the salon a sleek brunette has appeared, closing a door behind her and speaking to one of the hair stylists.  
Brunette is tall, tanned, lovely, and in her late thirties or forties—it's difficult to tell. She's wearing the same uniform as Greta, but in black. She looks stunning. Her hair is long and shines like a halo. As she turns, she catches sight of Zayn and smiles at him, a dazzling smile of warm recognition.  
"Excuse me," Zayn mumbles hurriedly.  
He strides quickly through the salon, past the hair stylists all in white, past the apprentices at the sinks, and over to her, too far away for me to hear their conversation. Brunette greets him with obvious affection, kissing both his cheeks, her hands resting on his upper arms, and they talk animatedly together.  
"Mr. Horan?"  
Greta the receptionist is trying to get my attention.  
"Hang on a moment, please." I watch Zayn, fascinated.  
Brunette turns and looks at me, and gives me the same dazzling smile, as if she knows me. I smile politely back.  
Zayn looks upset about something. He's reasoning with her, and she's acquiescing, holding her hands up and smiling at him. He's smiling at her—clearly they know each other well. Perhaps they've worked together for a long time? Maybe she runs the place; after all, she has a certain look of authority.  
Then it hits me like a wrecking ball, and I know, deep down in my gut on a visceral level, I know who it is. It's her. Stunning, older, beautiful.  
It's Mrs. Robinson.

*****

"Greta, who is Mr. Malik talking to?"   
My scalp is trying to leave the building. It's prickling with apprehension, and my subconscious is screaming at me to follow it. But I sound nonchalant enough.  
"Oh, that's Mrs. Lincoln. She owns the place with Mr. Malik." Greta seems more than happy to share.  
"Mrs. Lincoln?" I thought Mrs. Robinson was divorced. Perhaps she's remarried to some poor sap.  
"Yes. She's not usually here, but one of our technicians is sick today so she's filling in."  
"Do you know Mrs. Lincoln's first name?"  
Greta looks up at me, frowning, and purses her bright pink lips, questioning my curiosity. Shit, perhaps this is a step too far.  
"Elena," she says, almost reluctantly.  
I'm swamped by a strange sense of relief that my spidey sense has not let me down.  
Spidey sense? My subconscious snorts, Paedo sense.  
They are still deep in discussion. Zayn is talking rapidly to Elena, and she looks worried, nodding, grimacing, and shaking her head. Reaching out, she rubs his arm soothingly while biting her lip. Another nod, and she glances at me and offers me a small reassuring smile.  
I can only stare at her stony-faced. I think I'm in shock. How could he bring me here?  
She murmurs something to Zayn, and he looks my way briefly then turns back to her and replies. She nods, and I think she's wishing him luck, but my lip-reading skills aren't highly developed.  
Fifty strides back to me, anxiety etched on his face. Damn right. Mrs. Robinson returns to the back room, closing the door behind her.  
Zayn frowns. "Are you okay?" he asks, but his voice is strained, cautious.  
"Not really. You didn't want to introduce me?" My voice sounds cold, hard.  
His mouth drops open, he looks as if I've pulled the rug from under his feet.  
"But I thought—"  
"For a bright man, sometimes . . ." Words fail me. "I'd like to go, please."  
"Why?"  
"You know why." I roll my eyes.  
He gazes down at me, his eyes burning.  
"I'm sorry, Ni. I didn't know she'd be here. She's never here. She's opened a new branch at the Bravern Center, and that's where she's normally based. Someone was sick today."  
I turn on my heel and head for the door.  
"We won't need Franco, Greta," Zayn snaps as we head out of the door. I have to suppress the impulse to run. I want to run fast and far away. I have an overwhelming urge to cry. I just need to get away from all this fuckedupness.  
Zayn walks wordlessly beside me as I try to mull all this over in my head. Wrapping my arms protectively around myself, I keep my head down, avoiding the trees on Second Avenue. Wisely, he makes no move to touch me. My mind is boiling with unanswered questions. Will Mr. Evasive fess up?  
"You used to take your subs there?" I snap.  
"Some of them, yes," he says quietly, his tone clipped.  
"Perrie?"  
"Yes."  
"The place looks very new."  
"It's been refurbished recently."  
"I see. So Mrs. Robinson met all your subs."  
"Yes."  
"Did they know about her?"  
"No. None of them did. Only you."  
"But I'm not your sub."  
"No, you most definitely are not."  
I stop and face him. His eyes are wide, fearful. His lips are pressed into a hard, uncompromising line.  
"Can you see how fucked-up this is?" I glare up at him, my voice low.  
"Yes. I'm sorry." And he has the grace to look contrite.  
"I want to get my hair cut, preferably somewhere where you haven't fucked either the staff or the clientele."  
He flinches.  
"Now, if you'll excuse me."  
"You're not running. Are you?" he asks.  
"No, I just want a damn haircut. Somewhere I can close my eyes, have someone wash my hair, and forget about all this baggage that accompanies you." He runs his hand through his hair.   
"I can have Franco come to the apartment, or your place," he says quietly.  
"She's very attractive."  
He blinks. "Yes, she is."  
"Is she still married?"  
"No. She divorced about five years ago."  
"Why aren't you with her?"  
"Because that's over between us. I've told you this." His brow creases suddenly. Holding his finger up, he fishes his Blackberry out of his jacket pocket. It must be vibrating because I don't hear it ring.  
"Welch," he snaps, then listens. We are standing on Second Avenue, and I gaze in the direction of the larch sapling in front of me, its leaves the newest green.  
People bustle past us, lost in their Saturday morning chores. No doubt contemplating their own personal dramas. I wonder if they include stalker ex-submissives, stunning ex-Doms, and a man who has no concept of privacy under United Kingdom law.  
"Killed in a car crash? When?" Zayn interrupts my reverie.  
Oh no. Who? I listen more closely.  
"That's twice that bastard's not been forthcoming. He must know. Does he have no feelings for her whatsoever?" Zayn shakes his head in disgust. "This is beginning to make sense . . . no . . . explains why, but not where." Zayn glances around us as if searching for something, and I find myself mirroring his actions. Nothing catches my eye.  
There are just the shoppers, the traffic, and the trees.  
"She's here," Zayn continues. "She's watching us . . . Yes . . . No. Two or four, twenty-four seven . . . I haven't broached that yet." Zayn looks at me directly.  
Broached what? I frown, at him and he regards me warily.  
"What . . . ," he whispers and pales, his eyes widening. "I see. When? . . . That recently? But how? . . . No background checks? . . . I see. E-mail the name, address, and photos if you have them . . . twenty-four seven, from this afternoon. Liaise with Higgins." Zayn hangs up.  
"Well?" I ask, exasperated. Is he going to tell me?  
"That was Welch."  
"Who's Welch?"  
"My security advisor."  
"Okay. So what's happened?"  
"Perrie left her husband about three months ago and ran off with a guy who was killed in a car accident four weeks ago."  
"Oh."  
"The asshole shrink should have found that out," he says angrily. "Grief, that's what this is. Come." He holds out his hand, and I automatically place mine in his before I snatch it away again.  
"Wait a minute. We were in the middle of a discussion, about us. About her, your Mrs. Robinson."  
Zayn's face hardens. "She's not my Mrs. Robinson. We can talk about it at my place."  
"I don't want to go to your place. I want to get my hair cut!" I shout. If I can just focus on this one thing . . .  
He grabs his Blackberry from his pocket again and dials a number. "Greta, Zayn Malik. I want Franco at my place in an hour. Ask Mrs. Lincoln . . . Good." He puts his phone away. "He's coming at one."  
"Zayn . . . !" I splutter, exasperated.  
“Niall, Perrie is obviously suffering a psychotic break. I don't know if it's you or me she's after, or what lengths she's prepared to go to. We'll go to your place, pick up your things, and you can stay with me until we've tracked her down."  
"Why would I want to do that?"  
"So I can keep you safe."  
"But—"  
He glares at me. "You are coming back to my apartment if I have to drag you there by your hair."  
I gape at him . . . this is beyond belief. Fifty Shades in Glorious Technicolor.  
"I think you're overreacting."  
"I don't. We can continue our discussion back at my place. Come." I fold my arms and glare at him. This has gone too far.  
"No," I state stubbornly. I have to make a stand.  
"You can walk or I can carry you. I don't mind either way, Niall."  
"You wouldn't dare." I scowl at him. Surely he wouldn't make a scene on Second Avenue?  
He half smiles at me, but the smile doesn't reach his eyes.  
"Oh, baby, we both know that if you throw down the gauntlet I'll be only too happy to pick it up."  
We glare at each other—and abruptly he sweeps down, clasps me round my thighs, and lifts me. Before I know it, I am over his shoulder.  
"Put me down!" I scream. Oh, it feels good to scream.  
He starts striding along Second Avenue, ignoring me. Clasping his arm firmly around my thighs, he swats my behind with his free hand.  
"Zayn!" I shout. People are staring. Could this be any more humiliating? "I'll walk! I'll walk."  
He puts me down, and before he's even stood upright, I stomp off in the direction of my apartment, seething, ignoring him. Of course, he's by my side in moments, but I continue to ignore him. What am I going to do? I am so angry, but I'm not even sure what I am angry about—there's so much.  
As I stalk back home, I make a mental list:  
1\. Shoulder carrying—unacceptable for anyone over the age of six.  
2\. Taking me to the salon that he owns with his ex-lover—how stupid can he be?  
3\. The same place he took his submissives—same stupidity at work here.  
4\. Not even realizing that this was a bad idea—and he's supposed to be a bright guy.  
5\. Having crazy ex-girlfriends. Can I blame him for that? I am so furious; yes, I can.  
6\. Knowing my bank account number—that's just too stalkery by half.  
7\. Buying LIP—he's got more money than sense.  
8\. Insisting I stay with him—the threat from Perrie must be worse than he feared . . . he didn't mention that yesterday.  
Oh no, realization dawns. Something's changed. What could that be? I halt, and Zayn halts with me.   
"What's happened?" I demand.  
He knits his brow. "What do you mean?"  
"With Perrie."  
"I've told you."  
"No, you haven't. There's something else. You didn't insist that I go to your place yesterday. So what's happened?"  
He shifts uncomfortably.  
"Zayn! Tell me!" I snap.  
"She managed to obtain a concealed weapons permit yesterday."   
Oh shit. I gaze at him, blinking, and feel the blood draining from my face as I absorb this news. I may faint. Suppose she wants to kill him? No.  
"That means she can just buy a gun," I whisper.  
"Ni," he says, his voice full of concern. He places his hands on my shoulders, pulling me close to him. "I don't think she'll do anything stupid, but—I just don't want to take that risk with you."  
"Not me . . . what about you?" I whisper.  
He frowns down at me, and I wrap my arms around him and hug him hard, my face against his chest. He doesn't seem to mind.  
"Let's get back," he murmurs, and he reaches down and kisses my hair, and that's it.  
All my fury is gone, but not forgotten. Dissipated under the threat of some harm coming to Zayn. The thought is unbearable.  
Solemnly I pack a small case and place my Mac, the Blackberry, my iPad, and Zero John in my backpack.  
"Zero John's coming, too?" Zayn asks.  
I nod and he gives me a small, indulgent smile.  
"Andy is back Tuesday," I mutter.  
"Andy?"  
"Lou's brother. He's staying here until he finds a place in London." Zayn gazes at me blankly, but I notice the frostiness creep into his eyes.  
"Well, it's good that you'll be staying with me. Give him more room," he says quietly.  
"I don't know that he's got keys. I'll need to be back then." Zayn gazes at me impassively but says nothing.  
"That's everything."  
He grabs my case, and we head out the door. As we walk around to the back of the building to the parking lot, I'm aware that I am looking over my shoulder. I don't know if my paranoia has taken over or if someone really is watching me. Zayn opens the passenger door of the Audi and looks at me expectantly.  
"Are you getting in?" he asks.  
"I thought I was driving."  
"No. I'll drive."  
"Something wrong with my driving? Don't tell me you know what I scored on my driving test . . . I wouldn't be surprised with your stalking tendencies." Maybe he knows that I just scraped through the written test.  
"Get in the car, Niall," he snaps angrily.  
"Okay." I hastily climb in. Honestly, chill, will you?  
Perhaps he has the same uneasy feeling, too. Some dark sentinel watching us—well, a pale blonde with blue eyes who has an uncanny resemblance to yours truly and quite possibly a concealed firearm.  
Zayn sets off into the traffic.  
"Were all your submissives blondes?"  
He frowns and glances at me quickly. "Yes," he mutters. He sounds uncertain, and I imagine him thinking, where's he going with this?  
"I just wondered."  
"I told you. I prefer blondes."  
"Mrs. Robinson isn't a blonde."  
"That's probably why," he mutters. "She put me off brunettes forever."  
"You're kidding," I gasp.  
"Yes. I'm kidding," he replies, exasperated.  
I stare impassively out the window, spying blondes everywhere, none of them Perrie, though.  
So, he only likes blondes. I wonder why? Did Mrs. Extraordinarily-Glamorous-In-Spite-Of-Being-Old Robinson really put him off brunettes? I shake my head—Zayn Mindfuck Malik.  
"Tell me about her."  
"What do you want to know?" Zayn's brow furrows, and his tone of voice tries to warn me off.  
"Tell me about your business arrangement."  
He visibly relaxes, happy to talk about work. "I am a silent partner. I'm not particularly interested in the beauty business, but she's built it into a successful venture. I just invested and helped get her started."  
"Why?"  
"I owed it to her."  
"Oh?"  
"When I dropped out of uni, she lent me a hundred grand to start my business." Holy fuck . . . she's rich, too.  
"You dropped out?"  
"It wasn't my thing. I did two years. Unfortunately, my parents were not so understanding." I frown. Mr. Malik and Dr. Trisha Malik disapproving, I can't picture it.  
"You don't seem to have done too badly dropping out. What was your major?"  
"Politics and Economics."  
Hmm . . . figures.  
"So she's rich?" I murmur.  
"She was a bored trophy wife, Niall. Her husband was wealthy—big in timber." He smirks. "He wouldn't let her work. You know, he was controlling. Some men are like that." He gives me a quick sideways grin.  
"Really? A controlling man, surely a mythical creature?" I don't think I can squeeze any more sarcasm into my response.  
Zayn's grin gets bigger.  
"She lent you her husband's money?"  
He nods and a small mischievous smile appears on his lips.  
"That's terrible."  
"He got his own back," Zayn says darkly as he pulls into the underground garage at Escala.  
Oh?  
"How?"  
Zayn shakes his head as if recalling a particularly sour memory and parks beside the Audi Quattro SUV.   
"Come—Franco will be here shortly."   
In the elevator Zayn peers down at me. "Still mad at me?" he asks matter-of-factly.  
"Very."  
He nods. "Okay," he says, and stares straight ahead.  
Higgins is waiting for us when we arrive in the foyer. How does he always know? He takes my case.  
"Has Welch been in touch?" Zayn asks.  
"Yes, sir."  
"And?"  
"Everything's arranged."  
"Excellent. How's your daughter?"  
"She's fine, thank you, sir."  
"Good. We have a hairdresser arriving at one—Franco De Luca."  
"Mr. Horan," Higgins nods at me.  
"Hi, Higgins. You have a daughter?"  
"Yes sir."  
"How old is she?"  
"She's seven."  
Zayn gazes at me impatiently.  
"She lives with her mother," Higgins clarifies.  
"Oh, I see."  
Higgins smiles at me. This is unexpected. Higgins’ a father? I follow Zayn into the great room, intrigued by this information.  
I glance around. I haven't been here since I walked out.  
"Are you hungry?"  
I shake my head. Zayn gazes at me for a beat and decides not to argue.  
"I have to make a few calls. Make yourself at home."  
"Okay."  
Zayn disappears into his study, leaving me standing in the huge art gallery he calls home and wondering what to do with myself.  
Clothes! Picking up my backpack, I wander upstairs to my bedroom and check out the walk-in closet. It's still full of clothes—all brand new with price tags still attached. Three designer suits, three semi-formal clothes, and three more for everyday wear. All this must have cost a fortune.  
I check the tag on one of the suits: £2,998. Holy fuck. I sink to the floor.  
This isn't me. I put my head in my hands and try to process the last few hours. It's exhausting. Why, oh why have I fallen for someone who is plain crazy—beautiful, sexy as fuck, richer than Croesus, and crazy with a capital K?  
I fish my Blackberry out of my backpack and call my mum.  
"Nialler, honey! It's been so long. How are you, darling?"  
"Oh, you know . . ."  
"What's wrong? Still not worked it out with Zayn?"  
"Mum, it's complicated. I think he's nuts. That's the problem."  
"Tell me about it. Men, there's just no reading them sometimes. Chris’ wondering if our move to Mullingar was a good one."  
"What?"  
"Yeah, he's talking about going back to Glasgow."  
Oh, someone else has problems. I'm not the only one.  
Zayn appears in the doorway. "There you are. I thought you'd run off." His relief is obvious.  
I hold my hand up to indicate that I'm on the phone. "Sorry, Mum, I have to go. I'll call again soon."  
"Okay, honey—take care of yourself. Love you!"  
"Love you, too, Mum."  
I hang up and gaze at Fifty. He frowns, looking strangely awkward.  
"Why are you hiding in here?" he asks.  
"I'm not hiding. I'm despairing."  
"Despairing?"  
"Of all this, Zayn." I wave my hand in the general direction of the clothes.  
"Can I come in?"  
"It's your closet."  
He frowns again and sits down, cross-legged, facing me.  
"They're just clothes. If you don't like them I'll send them back."  
"You're a lot to take on, you know?"  
He blinks at me and scratches his chin . . . his stubbly chin. My fingers itch to touch him.  
"I know. I'm trying," he murmurs.  
"You're very trying."  
"As are you, Blondie."  
"Why are you doing this?"  
His eyes widen and his wary look returns. "You know why."  
"No, I don't."  
He runs a hand through his hair. "You are one frustrating lad."  
"You could have a nice blonde submissive. One who'd say, ‘how high?' every time you said jump, provided of course he or she had permission to speak. So why me, Zayn? I just don't get it."  
He gazes at me for a moment, and I have no idea what he's thinking.  
"You make me look at the world differently, Niall. You don't want me for my money. You give me . . . hope," he says softly.  
What? Mr. Cryptic is back. "Hope of what?"  
He shrugs. "More." His voice is low and quiet.   
"And you're right. I am used to men and women doing exactly what I say, when I say, doing exactly what I want. It gets old quickly. There's something about you, Niall, that calls to me on some deep level I don't understand. It's a siren's call. I can't resist you, and I don't want to lose you." He reaches forward and takes my hand.   
"Don't run, please—have a little faith in me and a little patience. Please." He looks so vulnerable . . . Jeez, it's disturbing. Leaning up on my knees, I bend forward and kiss him gently on his lips.  
"Okay. Faith and patience, I can live with that."  
"Good. Because Franco's here."  
Franco is small, dark, and also very gay. I love him.  
"Such beautiful hair!" he gushes with an outrageous, probably fake Italian accent. I bet he's from Baltimore or somewhere, but his enthusiasm is infectious. Zayn leads us both into his bathroom, exits hurriedly, and reenters carrying a chair from his room.  
"I'll leave you two to it," he mutters.  
"Grazie, Mr. Malik." Franco turns to me. "Bene, Niall, what shall we do with you?" 

*****  
Zayn is sitting on his couch, plowing through what look like spreadsheets. Soft, mellow classical music drifts through the great room. A woman sings passionately, pouring her soul into the song. It's breathtaking. Zayn glances up and smiles, distracting me from the music.  
"See! I tell you he like it," Franco enthuses.  
"You look lovely, Ni," Zayn says appreciatively.  
"My work ‘ere is done," Franco exclaims.  
Zayn rises and strolls toward us. "Thank you, Franco."   
Franco turns, grasps me in an overwhelming bear hug, and kisses both my cheeks.  
"Never let anyone else be cutting your hair, bellissima Niall!" I laugh, slightly embarrassed by his familiarity. Zayn shows him to the foyer door and returns moments later.  
"I'm glad you kept it not that short," he says as he walks toward me, his eyes bright. He takes a strand between his fingers.  
"So soft," he murmurs, gazing down at me. "Are you still mad at me?" I nod and he smiles.  
"What precisely are you mad at me about?"  
I roll my eyes. "You want the list?"  
"There's a list?"  
"A long one."  
"Can we discuss it in bed?"  
"No." I pout at him childishly.  
"Over lunch, then. I'm hungry, and not just for food," he gives me a salacious smile.  
"I am not going to let you dazzle me with your sexpertise." He stifles a smile.   
"What is bothering you specifically, Blondie? Spit it out." Okay.  
"What's bothering me? Well, there's your gross invasion of my privacy, the fact that you took me to some place where your ex-mistress works and you used to take all your lovers to have their bits waxed, you manhandled me in the street like I was six years old—and to cap it all, you let your Mrs. Robinson touch you!" My voice has risen to a crescendo.  
He raises his eyebrows, and his good humor vanishes.  
"That's quite a list. But just to clarify once more—she's not my Mrs. Robinson."  
"She can touch you," I repeat.  
He purses his lips. "She knows where."  
"What does that mean?"  
He runs both hands through his hair and closes his eyes briefly, as if he's seeking divine guidance of some kind. He swallows.  
"You and I don't have any rules. I have never had a relationship without rules, and I never know where you're going to touch me. It makes me nervous. Your touch completely—" He stops, searching for the words.   
" It just means more . . . so much more" More? His answer's completely unexpected, throwing me, and there's that little word with the big meaning hanging between us again.  
My touch means . . . more. Holy cow. How am I supposed to resist when he says this stuff? Brown eyes search mine, watching, apprehensive.  
Tentatively I reach out and apprehension shifts to alarm. Zayn steps back and I drop my hand.  
"Hard limit," he whispers urgently, a pained, panicked look on his face.  
I can't help but feel a crushing disappointment. "How would you feel if you couldn't touch me?"  
"Devastated and deprived," he says immediately.  
Oh, my Fifty Shades. Shaking my head, I offer him a small, reassuring smile and he relaxes.  
"You'll have to tell me exactly why this is a hard limit, one day, please."  
"One day," he murmurs and seems to snap out of his vulnerability in a nanosecond.  
How can he switch so quickly? He's the most capricious person I know.  
"So, the rest of your list. Invading your privacy." His mouth twists as he contemplates this. "Because I know your bank account number?"  
"Yes, that's outrageous."  
"I do background checks on all my submissives. I'll show you." He turns and heads for his study.  
I dutifully follow him, dazed. From a locked filing cabinet, he pulls a manila folder.  
Typed on the tab: niall james horan.  
Holy fucking shit. I glare at him.  
He shrugs apologetically. "You can keep it," he says quietly.  
"Well, gee, thanks," I snap. I flick through the contents. He has a copy of my birth certificate, for heaven's sake, my hard limits, the NDA, the contract— Jeez—my social security number, resume, employment records.  
"So you knew I worked at Devine’s?"  
"Yes."  
"It wasn't a coincidence. You didn't just drop by?"  
"No."  
I don't know whether to be angry or flattered.  
"This is fucked-up. You know that?"  
"I don't see it that way. What I do, I have to be careful."  
"But this is private."  
"I don't misuse the information. Anyone can get hold of it if they have half a mind to, Niall. To have control—I need information. It's how I've always operated." He gazes at me, his expression guarded and unreadable.  
"You do misuse the information. You deposited twenty-four thousand pounds that I didn't want into my account."  
His mouth presses in a hard line. "I told you. That's what Higgins managed to get for your car. Unbelievable, I know, but there you go."  
"But the Audi . . ."  
"Niall, do you have any idea how much money I make?" I flush, of course not. "Why should I? I don't need to know the bottom line of your bank account, Zayn."  
His eyes soften. "I know. That's one of the things I love about you." I gaze at him, shocked. Love about me?  
"Niall, I earn roughly one hundred thousand pounds an hour." My mouth drops open. That is an obscene amount of money.  
"Twenty-four thousand poundss is nothing. The car, the Tess books, the clothes, they're nothing." His voice is soft.  
I gaze at him. He really has no idea. Extraordinary.  
"If you were me, how would you feel about all this . . . largesse coming your way?" I ask. He stares at me blankly, and there it is, his problem in a nutshell—empathy or the lack thereof. The silence stretches between us.  
Finally, he shrugs. "I don't know," he says, and he looks genuinely bemused.  
My heart swells. This is it, the crux of his Fifty Shades, surely. He can't put himself in my shoes. Well, now I know.  
"It doesn't feel great. I mean, you're very generous, but it makes me uncomfortable. I have told you this enough times."  
He sighs. "I want to give you the world, Niall."  
"I just want you, Zayn. Not all the add-ons."  
"They're part of the deal. Part of what I am."  
Oh, this is going nowhere.  
"Shall we eat?" I ask. This tension between us is draining.  
He frowns. "Sure."  
"I'll cook."  
"Good. Otherwise there's food in the fridge."  
"Mrs. Jones is off on the weekends? So you eat cold cuts most weekends?"  
"No."  
"Oh?"  
He sighs. "My submissives cook, Niall."  
"Oh, of course." I flush. How could I be so stupid? I smile sweetly at him. "What would Sir like to eat?"  
He smirks. "Whatever the lad can find," he says darkly.  
Inspecting the impressive contents of the fridge, I decide on Spanish omelet. There are even cold potatoes—perfect. It's quick and easy. Zayn is still in his study, no doubt invading some poor, unsuspecting fool's privacy and compiling information. The thought is unpleasant and leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. My mind is reeling. He really knows no bounds.  
I need music if I'm going to cook, and I'm going to cook unsubmissively! I wander over to the iPod dock beside the fireplace and pick up Zayn's iPod. I bet there are more of Perrie’s choices on here,—I dread the very idea.  
Where is she? I wonder. What does she want?  
I shudder. What a legacy. I can't wrap my head around it.  
I scroll through the extensive list. I want something upbeat. Hmm, Beyoncé—doesn't sound like Zayn's taste. Crazy in Love. Oh yes! How apt. I hit the repeat button and put it on loud. (A/N: HAHAHA Zayn Beyoncé Malik! )  
I sashay back to the kitchen and find a bowl, open the fridge, and take out the eggs. I crack them open and begin to whisk, dancing the whole time.  
Raiding the fridge once more, I gather potatoes, ham, and— Yes!—peas from the freezer. All of these will do. Finding a pan, I place it on the stove, put in a little olive oil, and go back to whisking.  
No empathy, I muse. Is this unique to Zayn? Maybe all men are like this, baffled by gay. I just don't know. Perhaps it's not such a revelation.  
I wish Louis were home; he would know. He's been in Barbados far too long. He should be back at the end of the week after his additional vacation with Harry. I wonder if it's still lust at first sight for them.  
One of the things I love about you.  
I stop whisking. He said it. Does that mean there are other things? I smile for the first time since seeing Mrs. Robinson—a genuine, heartfelt, face-splitting smile.  
Zayn slips his arms around me, making me jump.  
"Interesting choice of music," he purrs as he kisses me below my ear. "Your hair smells good." He nuzzles my hair and inhales deeply.  
Desire uncurls in my belly. No. I shrug out of his embrace.  
"I'm still mad at you."  
He frowns. "How long are you going to keep this up?" he asks, dragging a hand through his hair.  
I shrug. "At least until I've eaten."  
His lips twitch with amusement. Turning, he picks up the remote control from the counter and switches off the music.  
"Did you put that on your iPod?" I ask.  
He shakes his head, his expression somber, and I know it was her—Ghost Girl.  
"Don't you think she was trying to tell you something back then?"  
"Well, with hindsight, probably," he says quietly. No empathy. My subconscious folds his arms and smacks his lips in disgust.  
"Why's it still on there?"  
"I quite like the song. But if it offends you I'll remove it."  
"No, it's fine. I like to cook to music."  
"What would you like to hear?"  
"Surprise me."  
He smirks at me and heads over to the iPod dock while I go back to my whisking.  
Moments later the heavenly sweet, soulful voice of Nina Simone fills the room. It's one of Bobby's favorites: "I Put a Spell on You."  
I flush, turning to gape at Zayn. What is he trying to tell me? He put a spell on me a long time ago. Oh my . . . his look has changed, the levity gone, his eyes darker, intense.  
I watch him, enthralled as slowly, like the predator he is, he stalks me in time to the slow sultry beat of the music. He's barefoot, wearing just an untucked white shirt, jeans, and a smoldering look.  
Nina sings, "you're mine" as Zayn reaches me, his intention clear.  
"Zayn, please," I whisper, the whisk redundant in my hand.  
"Please what?"  
"Don't do this."  
"Do what?"  
"This."  
He's standing in front of me, gazing down at me.  
"Are you sure?" he breathes and reaching over, he takes the whisk from my hand and places it back in the bowl with the eggs. My heart is in my mouth. I don't want this—I do want this—badly.  
He's so frustrating. He's so hot and desirable. I tear my gaze away from his spellbinding look.  
"I want you, Niall." he murmurs. "I love and I hate, and I love arguing with you. It's very new. I need to know that we're okay. It's the only way I know how."  
"My feelings for you haven't changed," I whisper.  
His proximity is overwhelming, exhilarating. The familiar pull is there, all my synapses goading me toward him, my inner god at his most libidinous. Staring at the patch of hair in the V of his shirt, I bite my lip, helpless, driven by desire—I want to taste him there.  
He's so close, but he doesn't touch me. His heat is warming my skin.  
"I'm not going to touch you until you say yes," he says softly. "But right now, after a really shitty morning, I want to bury myself in you and just forget everything but us."   
Oh my . . . Us. A magical combination, a small potent pronoun that clinches the deal. I raise my head to stare at his beautiful yet serious face.  
"I'm going to touch your face," I breathe, and see his surprise reflected briefly in his eyes before his acceptance registers.  
Lifting my hand, I caress his cheek, and run my fingertips across his stubble. He closes his eyes and exhales, leaning his face into my touch.  
He leans down slowly, and my lips automatically lift to meet his. He hovers over me.  
"Yes or no, Niall?" he whispers.  
"Yes."  
His mouth softly closes on mine, coaxing, coercing my lips apart as his arms fold around me, pulling me to him. His hand moves up my back, fingers tangling in the hair at the back of my head and tugging gently, while his other hand flattens on my behind, forcing me against him. I moan softly.  
"Mr. Malik." Higgins coughs, and Zayn releases me immediately.  
"Higgins," he says, his voice frigid.  
I whirl round to see an uncomfortable Higgins standing on the threshold of the great room. Zayn and Higgins stare at each other, some unspoken communication passing between them.  
"My study," Zayn snaps, and Higgins walks briskly across the room.  
"Rain check," Zayn whispers to me before following Higgins out of the room.  
I take a deep, steadying breath. Holy hell. Can I not resist him for one minute? I shake my head, disgusted at myself, grateful for Higgins’ interruption, embarrassing though it is.  
I wonder what Higgins has had to interrupt in the past. What's he seen? I don't want to think about that. Lunch. I'll make lunch. I busy myself slicing potatoes. What does Higgins want? My mind races—is this about Perrie?  
Ten minutes later, they emerge, just as the omelet is ready. Zayn looks preoccupied as he glances at me.  
"I'll brief them in ten," he says to Higgins.  
"We'll be ready," Higgins answers and leaves the great room.  
I produce two warmed plates and place them on the kitchen island.  
"Lunch?"  
"Please," Zayn says as he perches on one of the bar stools. Now he's watching me carefully.  
"Problem?"  
"No."  
I scowl. He's not telling me. I dish out lunch and sit down beside him, resigned to staying in the dark.  
"This is good," Zayn murmurs appreciatively as he takes a bite. "Would you like a glass of wine?"  
"No, thank you." I need to keep a clear head around you, Malik.  
It does taste good, even though I'm not that hungry. But I eat, knowing Zayn will nag if I don't. Eventually Zayn disrupts our brooding silence and switches on the classical piece I heard earlier.  
"What's this?" I ask.  
"Canteloube, Songs of the Auvergne. This is called ‘Bailero.' "  
"It's lovely. What language is it?"  
"It's in old French—Occitan, in fact."  
"You speak French, do you understand it?" Memories of the flawless French he spoke at his parents' dinner come to mind . . .  
"Some words, yes." Zayn smiles, visibly relaxing. "My mother had a mantra: musical instrument, foreign language, martial art. Harry speaks Spanish; Eleanor and I speak French. Harry plays guitar, I play piano, and El the cello."  
"Wow. And the martial arts?"  
"Harry does Judo. El put her foot down at age twelve and refused." He smirks at the memory.  
"I wish my mother had been that organized."  
"Dr. Trisha is formidable when it comes to the accomplishments of her children."  
"She must be very proud of you. I would be."  
A dark thought flashes across Zayn's face, and he looks momentarily uncomfortable. He regards me warily as if he's in uncharted territory.  
"Have you decided what you'll wear this evening? Or do I need to come and pick something for you?" His tone is suddenly brusque.  
Whoa! He sounds angry. Why? What have I said?  
"Um . . . not yet. Did you choose all those clothes?"  
"No, Niall, I didn't. I gave a list and your size to a personal shopper at Neiman Marcus. They should fit. Just so that you know, I have ordered additional security for this evening and the next few days. With Perrie unpredictable and unaccounted for somewhere on the streets of London, I think it's a wise precaution. I don't want you going out unaccompanied. Okay?"  
I blink at him. "Okay." What happened to I-must-have-you-now Malik?  
"Good. I'm going to brief them. I shouldn't be long."  
"They're here?"  
"Yes."  
Where?  
Collecting his plate, Zayn places it in the sink and disappears from the room. What the hell was that about? He's like several different people in one body. Isn't that a symptom of schizophrenia? I must Google that.  
I clear my plate, wash up quickly, and head back up to my bedroom carrying the Niall James Horan dossier. Back in the walk-in closet, I pull out the three suits. Now, which one?  
Lying down on the bed, I gaze at my Mac, my iPad, and my Blackberry. I am overwhelmed with technology. I set about transferring Zayn's playlist from my iPad to the Mac, then fire up Google to surf the net.  
I'm lying across the bed looking at my Mac as Zayn enters.  
"What are you doing?" he inquires softly.  
I panic briefly, wondering if I should let him see the website I'm on: Multiple Personality Disorder: The Symptoms.  
Stretching out beside me, he eyes the webpage with amusement.  
"On this site for a reason?" he asks nonchalantly.  
Brusque Zayn has gone—playful Zayn is back. How the hell am I supposed to keep up with this?  
"Research. Into a difficult personality." I give him my most deadpan look.  
His lips twitch with a suppressed smile. "A difficult personality?"  
"My own pet project."  
"I'm a pet project now? A sideline. Science experiment maybe. When I thought I was everything. Blondie, you wound me."  
"How do you know it's you?"  
"Wild guess." He smirks.  
"It's true that you are the only fucked-up, mercurial, control freak that I know, intimately."  
"I thought I was the only person you know intimately." He arches a brow.  
I flush. "Yes. That, too."  
"Have you reached any conclusions yet?"  
I turn and gaze at him. He's on his side stretched out beside me with his head resting on his elbow, his expression soft, amused.  
"I think you're in need of intense therapy."  
He reaches up and gently brushes a stray hair from my forehead.  
"I think I'm in need of you. Here." He hands me a tube of lipstick.  
I frown at him, perplexed. It's harlot red, not my color at all.  
"You want me to wear this?" I squeak.  
He laughs. "No, Niall, not unless you want to. Not sure it's your color," he finishes dryly.  
He sits up on the bed cross-legged and drags his shirt off over his head. Oh my.   
"I like your road map idea."  
I stare at him blankly. Road map?  
"The no-go areas," he says by way of explanation.  
"Oh. I was kidding."  
"I'm not."  
"You want me to draw on you, with lipstick?"  
"It washes off. Eventually."  
This means I could touch him freely. A small smile of wonder plays on my lips, and I smirk at him.  
"What about something more permanent like a Sharpie?"  
"I could get a tattoo." His eyes are alight with humor. (A/N: Zayn got no tattoos in the story!)  
Zayn Malik with a tattoo? Marring his lovely body, when it's marked in so many ways already? No way!  
"No to the tattoo!" I laugh to hide my horror.  
"Lipstick, then." He grins.  
Shutting the Mac, I push it to the side. This could be fun.  
"Come." He holds his hands out to me. "Sit on me."  
I push my shoes off my feet, scramble into a sitting position, and crawl over to him. He lies down on the bed but keeps his knees flexed.  
"Lean against my legs."  
I clamber over him and sit astride as instructed. His eyes are wide and cautious. But he's amused, too.  
"You seem—enthusiastic for this," he comments wryly.  
"I'm always eager for information, Mr. Malik, and it means you'll relax, because I'll know where the boundaries lie."  
He shakes his head, as if he can't quite believe that he's about to let me draw all over his body.  
"Open the lipstick," he orders.  
Oh, he's in über-bossy mode, but I don't care.  
"Give me your hand."  
I give him my other hand.  
"The one with the lipstick." He rolls his eyes at me.  
"Are you rolling your eyes at me?"  
"Yep."  
"That's very rude, Mr. Malik. I know some people who get positively violent at eye-rolling."  
"Do you now?" His tone is ironic.  
I give him my hand with the lipstick, and suddenly he sits up so we are nose to nose.  
"Ready?" he asks in a low, soft murmur that makes everything tighten and tense inside me. Oh wow.  
"Yes," I whisper. His proximity is alluring, his toned flesh close, his Zayn-smell mixed with my bodywash. He guides my hand up to the curve of his shoulder.  
"Press down," he breathes, and my mouth goes dry as he directs my hand down, from the top of his shoulder, around his arm socket then down the side of his chest. The lipstick leaves a broad, livid red streak it in its wake. He stops at the bottom of this ribcage then directs me across his stomach. He tenses and stares, seemingly impassive, into my eyes, but beneath his careful blank look, I see his restraint.  
His aversion is held in strict check, the line of his jaw is strained, and there's tension around his eyes. Midway across his stomach he murmurs, "And up the other side." He releases my hand.  
I mirror the line I've drawn on his left side. The trust he's giving me is heady but tempered by the fact that I can I count his pain. Seven small, round white scars dot his chest, and it's deep, dark purgatory to see this hideous, evil desecration of his beautiful body.  
Who would do this to a child?  
"There, done," I whisper, containing my emotion.  
"No, you're not," he replies and traces a line with his long index finger around the base of his neck. I follow the line of his finger with a scarlet streak. Finishing, I gaze into the brown depths of his eyes.  
"Now my back," he murmurs. He shifts so I have to climb off him, then he turns around on the bed and sits cross-legged with his back to me.  
"Follow the line from my chest, all the way round to the other side." His voice is low and husky.  
I do as he says until a crimson line runs across the middle of his back, and as I do, I count more scars marring his beautiful body. Nine in all.  
Holy fuck. I have to fight the overwhelming need to kiss each one and stop the tears pooling in my eyes. What kind of animal would do this? His head is down, and his body tense as I complete the circuit round his back.  
"Around your neck, too?" I whisper.  
He nods, and I draw another line joining the first around the base of his neck beneath his hair.  
"Finished," I murmur, and it looks like he's wearing a bizarre skin-colored vest with a harlot-red trim.  
His shoulders slump as he relaxes, and he turns slowly to face me once again.  
"Those are the boundaries," he says quietly, his eyes dark and pupils dilated . . . from fear? From lust? I want to hurl myself at him, but I restrain myself and gaze at him in wonder.  
"I can live with those. Right now I want to launch myself at you," I whisper.  
He gives me a wicked smile and holds out his hands, a gesture of supplication.  
"Well, Blondie, I'm all yours."  
I squeal with childish delight and catapult myself into his arms, knocking him flat. He twists, letting out a boyish laugh filled with relief that the ordeal is over. Somehow, I end up beneath him on the bed.  
"Now, about that rain check," he breathes and his mouth claims mine once more.


End file.
